The Rosary. A WREATH of roses, white and red, We know that, on a golden thread, And as the fragrant buds unfold They tell us of that sacred night, Known to the silent starbeams' light, They tell us of the manger cold, His glory in their song. They tell us of those lonely hours Beneath the olive's silver bowers In dark Gethsemane. They paint for us the Sacred Rood, The mournful mother, as she stood To see her Saviour die. They tell the glories of her tomb, While, far above earth's clouds and gloom, They tell us of the starry crown Mary! the storm, with wintry might, But still that wreath of roses bright Shall bind our hearts to thee. 1 Roses of the May. WHEN the first spring roses 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 Our thoughts to Heaven aspiring, ' The Monk of San Salvador LAST of the band together bound An aged monk alone was found, Long, long he bade adieu To all that earth holds dear, Then deep within the grave he laid 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 chant the holy Church's prayer, Or sing the blessed hymn. |