Alone he trimmed each altar lamp
Amid the dreary gloom,

And prayed within the vault so damp,
Above his brethren's tomb.

At length the downy winter snows

Fell softly all around,

And wrapped within their deep repose The monastery ground.

The old monk's bread and water failed,

No timely help was nigh;

His gentle spirit never quailed

He laid him down to die.

The holy prayers once more he said,

Before the altar cast;

He sang the office for the dead,

And meekly breathed his last.

Oh! deem not thou he died alone,
Forsaken and unshriven;
For blessed angels round him shone,
And bore his soul to heaven.

On an Old Sarcophagus

IN THE CATHEDRAL OF GIRGENTI, USED AS

A BAPTISMAL FONT.

THERE is a stone within these sacred walls,
Graved to contain the ashes of the dead,
When the pure soul, released from earthly thralls,
To the far heaven-land of its birth hath sped.

But there no mould'ring bones in peace await
The dawning of the resurrection's morn ;
But little ones are brought to heaven's gate,
And there anew in holy waters born.

Oh! meetly in that old sepulchral stone
The Church's sacred fount of blessing lies :-
So glory o'er the lonely tomb is thrown,
And from the home of death doth life arise.

The Palm-Tree.

IN wild Arabia's arid land

A lonely palm-tree grew,
And o'er the desert's burning sand
Its fan-like shadow threw.

Hundreds of years had passed away,
Yet, 'mid the glowing air,
When all around had met decay,
The palm-tree lingered there.

Some pilgrim bird, on weary wing, Might now and then draw nigh, Where the long dusky leaves would fling Their scanty shade, and dry.

And wand'ring Arab tents would come
In lengthening caravan ;

And there would be a busy hum
Of camel, and of man.

They cast a partial gleam of home
Around that dreary waste;

But silence came, and death-like gloom,
When the bright train had passed.

And when the morning sunbeams shone,

Deserted was the scene;

The fire's last embers left alone,
To show where life had been.

The shifting waves of desert sand

Around that trunk have blown; Changed the wild scene in which it stands, But it is yet alone.

And there the palm-tree lingers on
Beneath the burning sky,

A relic sad of ages gone,

Weary, yet not to die.

Legend

OF THE

ORIGIN OF THE FEAST OF THE IMMACULATE CONCEPTION IN ENGLAND.

'TWAS in the stormy days of old,

When might alone prevailed,

When Norman lord with Saxon strove,

A bark from England sailed.

Across the wild tempestuous waves

Seven holy monks it bore;

But 'mid the storm small hope remained,
That they could reach the shore.

And dark, and darker grew the night,
And fearful raged the blast;

And all to God and Mary prayed,-
All other hope was past.

Then through the mist, and drifting sleet,
And lightning's flash of glee,

A Form, in priestly robes arrayed,

Came gliding o'er the sea.