Had ta'en her flight to happier climes, to realms of bliss above,

To join, e'en in His own bright home, the chosen of her love.

Her funeral hymn had scarcely died in mournful notes away;

No grass had grown, no flower had sprung, above her silent clay;

When lo, once more those wailing strains fell sadly on the ear,

To tell us of the open'd grave, the sad funereal bier.

Another spirit, pure and good, has gone her joyous way;

Another soul, 'mid duty stern, has breathed her life

away;

Has died upon that foreign shore, far from her own dear land,

Has found a poor and lowly grave upon that hostile strand.

It was but yesterday she saw her sister sweetly die, And saw them lay her in her grave, beneath that stranger sky;

Yet as she softly turn'd away, she breathed an ardent prayer,

That her own course might quickly speed-her resting-place be there.

Her holy soul could prize full well the martyr's blessed lot;

Could prize above the monarch's throne that low and humble spot;

Could long, as holy souls can long to gain their promised rest,

To gain their true, their only home, the mansions of the blest.

She dropp'd a tear upon that grave, then gently went her way,

But her thoughts would wander back again, oft through the busy day;

And when her eye would sadly fall upon that lonely

spot,

She felt it was her own last home, that grave her own sweet lot.

She did but bide His own good time, 'mid works of love and pain,

Her convent home, her native land, she ne'er would see again;

She knew full well the silver thread one single breath would sever,

And then, oh love—and then, oh bliss- her own chaste Spouse for EVER.

And soon He came to claim His bride, His own, His spotless love;

And she trimm'd her lamp, and gladly went unto her home above;

And once again that mournful hymn was wafted o'er the wave,

As they laid her by her sister's side, united in the

grave.

She went not forth in youth's first flush, and when the step is light,

When Fancy fills the blithesome soul with many a vision bright;

For age had dimm'd her beaming eye and streak'd her locks with gray,

When forth she went with dauntless heart to wear her life away.

She left her home when home's sweet charms cling closest to the heart,

And when it wrings the inmost soul from that dear spot to part;

To leave, and that for evermore, the home we love so

well,

To find the stranger's lowly grave in some forgotten

dell.

Then honour rest upon her name, and glory be her

meed,

Who thus went forth at duty's call, and in the hour of need;

Who thus could leave her convent home, ne'er to return again,

Whose woman's heart still bore her up amid those scenes of pain.

The merry bells are ringing now, and Peace is brightly smiling,

But our hearts still cling around the place where these pure souls are lying;

There is a memory round their graves, which tells a grander tale

Than all the peals with which glad bells proud Victory's advent hail.

They sleep in silence, side by side, far from their own dear home;

They rest not in the cloister's shade, nor 'neath the convent's dome ;

We may not kneel with beating hearts upon that lowly spot,

But our thoughts shall often wander there,—they shall not be forgot.

Though pomp and pride may pass them by, and never breathe their name,

Oh! dear to us shall be their deeds, and dear their well-earn'd fame,

And when our children gather round, and ask us of

this war,

We'll lead them o'er the surging waves, to those low graves afar;

And when each youthful heart is full, and dim each beaming eye,

We'll tell them how those noble souls went forth to droop and die:

We'll teach them that the brightest crown which Fame awards the brave

Is theirs who sleep so humbly there, with the Cross above their grave.

Rev. J. A. Stothert.

THE MORNING STAR.

The title of "The Morning Star" is sometimes given to the Holy Virgin, Mother of Jesus, in remembrance of her immediately preceding His rising upon the world in His Incarnation.

STAR of the morn! O'er yonder purple hill

Reigning alone, amidst a wintry sky;

See, one by one, the lamps of midnight die
Before the rising dawn; thou reignest still,
Bright herald of diviner lights which fill

The rosy East; in heaven a lonely eye,
Until his burning car approaches nigh,
Who routs a million phantom-shapes of ill.
Not even before his face thy radiance pales,
Clear Star of Hope; propitious eye of morn,
Herald of sunshine to a world forlorn.
Thy stainless rising all Creation hails;
Thy light is his ; his countenance like thine;
Thy face, the mirror of his rays divine.