Oh, that a cloud should e'er arise to dim this happy

scene,

And make us weep and sadly sigh for glories that have been;

To make us turn with heavy hearts from Britain of

to-day,

And weep to love and prize her less than Britain pass'd away.

But yet once more in Britain's isle shall happy days be seen,

And Britain be more faithful still than Britain yet hath been;

Augustine's prayers, sweet Mary's might, shall beam upon our isle,

And England yet in Rome's bright crown, the “Isle of Saints," shall smile.

LINES ON SISTER WINIFREDE,

A HOLY NUN WHO DIED WHILST ATTENDING THE SICK AND WOUNDED IN THE CRIMEA.

THEY laid her in her lowly grave, upon a foreign

strand,

Far from her own dear island home, far from her native land;

They bore her to her long last home, amid the clash

of arms,

And the hymn they sang seemed sadly sweet among those fierce alarms.

G

They heeded not the cannon's roar, the rifle's deadly

shot,

But onward still they sadly went, to gain that lowly

spot;

And there with many a fervent prayer, and many a word of love,

They left her in her lonely grave, with a simple Cross above.

And yet she was a gentle soul, a timid fearful thing, Who like a startled fawn had sought her convent's shelt'ring wing,—

Had left with glad and bounding heart a world she could not love,

And chosen for her own chaste Spouse, the Lamb of stainless love.

She thought to spend her peaceful days within those cloisters gray,

And with matin song and vesper hymn beguile her

life away;

She little thought again to roam amid the world's dark strife,

Save where sweet mercy led her steps, to soothe the woes of life.

Yet, far away from her convent gray, and far from her lowly cell,

And far from the soft and silvery toll of the gentle convent bell,

And far from the home she loved so well, and far from her native sky,

'Mid the cannon's roar on a hostile shore, she laid her down to die.

She loved full well her convent home, and loved its cloisters gray,

And loved full well those holy spots where she had knelt to pray;

Yet with a purer, deeper love, she loved the soldier

brave,

And left her home, and left her all, his drooping

heart to raise.

She went not forth to gain applause, she sought not empty fame,

E'en those she tended might not know her history or her name;

No honours waited on her path, no flatt'ring voice was nigh;

For she only sought to toil in love, and 'mid her toil to die.

E'en when the ruthless tyrant came, he found her at

her task,

And struck her as she sought to heal the poison of his blast;

But he might not quench her holy love, nor dim her beaming eye,

And joyous as a new-made bride they saw her sweetly

die.

They'll raise no trophy to her name, they'll rear no stately bust,

To tell the stranger where she rests, co-mingling with the dust;

They'll leave her in her lonely grave, beneath that foreign sky,

Where she had taught them how to live, and taught them how to die.

Yet might she claim one passing word, one token of regret ;

"Twere fit that hot and scalding tears the soldier's cheek should wet,

For her who sought him in his pain, amid the war of

strife,

And proved the deepness of her love-ay, proved it with her life.

Oh, 'tis a fell and loathsome thing, this fierce sectarian

hate,

That thus would drag her noble deeds down from their high estate;

That thus can pass with silent lip those deeds of wondrous love,

Whose praise is sung by angel-bands, in happier climes above.

But oh! she'll little heed their praise within her lowly

bed,

For spirits glad, around her grave their choicest blessings shed;

Around her grave they softly flit on light and joyous

wing,

And gladly strike their golden harps, her well-earn'd meed to sing.

And whilst she sleeps beneath the Cross which erst she loved so well,

Oh! better far than bust or urn, IT will her praises

tell;

'Twill tell her tale in glowing terms, give glory to her

name,

And, better far than mortal tongue, proclaim her deeds, her fame.

The sweetest flowers that Nature yields shall bloom upon her grave;

The balmiest dews that Heaven can send, that holy spot shall lave;

And many a priest and many a nun shall raise their beaming eyes,

In joyous answer to her call, "Come thou and do likewise."

LINES ON SISTER ELIZABETH,

Who died of typhus fever, whilst attending the sick and wounded in the Crimea. She was buried by the side of Sister Winifrede, and a simple Cross marks their last restingplace.

It was but yesterday we sang a sad and solemn lay, O'er one who from this cold drear world had gladly sped away;