The Rosary.

A WREATH of roses, white and red,
Nursed on no earthly tree,
By purer dews than Eden's fed,
Mary, we bring to thee.

We know that, on a golden thread,
An angel near us shows
A lily for each Pater said;
Each Ave gains a rose.

And as the fragrant buds unfold
This chaplet that entwine,
A wondrous tale by each is told
Of mystery divine.

They tell us of that sacred night,
Oh, Virgin Mother mild!

Known to the silent starbeams' light,
When God became thy Child.

They tell us of the manger cold,
The lowly shepherd throng,
And of the angel bands that told

His glory in their song.

They tell us of those lonely hours
Of speechless agony,

Beneath the olive's silver bowers

In dark Gethsemane.

They paint for us the Sacred Rood,
The cross on Calvary,

The mournful mother, as she stood

To see her Saviour die.

They tell the glories of her tomb,
Where lilies radiant lay,

While, far above earth's clouds and gloom,
Our Queen sped on her way.

They tell us of the starry crown
To our dear Mother given,
And of her sceptre and renown
As angels' Queen in heaven.

Mary! the storm, with wintry might,
May rage o'er hill and lea;
But still that wreath of roses bright

Shall bind our hearts to thee.

Roses of the May.

WHEN the first spring roses

Fair and fragrant bloom,

Then the earth reposes

In glory and perfume. Hope, then, heart so weary, Care shall flee away,

No pain shall linger near thee With roses of the May.

Spring's first dewy roses,

Fresh and cool and bright;

Behind them Winter closes

His portals cold and white. Peace to the toil-worn spirit! 'Tis earth's glad holiday; Balm shall the soul inherit

With roses of the May.

When the first spring roses
Bloom all fresh and fair,
Then the heart reposes
In solitude and prayer.
Far from earth retiring,

To Mary let us pray,

Our thoughts to Heaven aspiring, With roses of the May.

The Monk of San Salvador

LAST of the band together bound
In holiest brotherhood,

An aged monk alone was found,
In mournful solitude.

Long, long he bade adieu

To all that earth holds dear,
He buried all the kind and true,
Who blessed each early year.

Then deep within the grave he laid
The brethren, one by one,—
All who cast light around the shade
Of that seclusion lone.

And now the echoes of the wall--

Those old monastic towers

Rung only to his own footfall,

Or clock that told the hours.

The old man wept ; for none was there
To bend the knee with him,

To chant the holy Church's prayer,

Or sing the blessed hymn.