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Peace! peace! behold the Martyr's brow serene,—
He would not change with thee for lengthen'd life!
But, hark! a woman's shriek ! and in his mien,

There is a fearful, momentary strife,

'Twixt earthly love, and that for which he dies: 'Tis past he prays, and upward casts his eyes.

And what sustains him in an hour like this?

How knows he, he shall reach the wish'd for goal?
Unproved, unseen, is heaven's transcendent bliss,
But, oh! its "evidence"* is in his soul—
By Faith he lived, tho' in a world of sin-
In faith he dies, a crown of life to win.

Yea, and his crown is sure! but now we turn
To those whose conflicts may be scarcely less,
Whose spirits for the "better country" yearn;
The faithful few in this world's wilderness:
Beset on either hand with divers snares,
Tempted, and tried, and compass'd round with cares.

The world's allurements spread before their view,
How can they tread the pilgrim's thorny way ?
How that strait self-denying path pursue,
Knowing that every other leads astray ?
Faith's glorious banner o'er them is unfürl'd,
And this the victory that o'ercomes the world ! †

Therefore, fear not! ye of the "little flock!"

The saints' high faith your watchword and your shield,

Your feet fixed firmly on the Living Rock,

Fear not! no power on earth shall make you yield.

Your Father's pleasure unto you made known,

The kingdom bought with blood is all


your own!

E. R..

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WITHIN these walls has much been done, and much has been effaced,

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For each successor makes a change in what the last had traced, Old fashioned plants and flowers are thrown aside in high disdain,,

And dwellers next to these perhaps will alter it again.

When the grave old friars went two and two along the broad straight walks ;,

When the orange lily and the flag upreared their stately stalks,
By beds where herb-angelica and feathery fennels grew,,
Sweet marjoram and basil green, and mint, and balm, and rue.

Q they little thought, as side by side, with sleek and sober pace,
They talked of holy Mother Church and of our Lady's grace ;
That on a day their garden trim so gay a dress would don,
And children's feet would tread its walks when they were dead
and gone.

But if their gambols and their joy those grave old friars could


They would hardly give those children dear their " Benedicite."
Those little hereties that plant and dig their garden small,
In what was once the bed of herbs beneath the ancient wall.

They would look askance at once trim beds, where double daisies stood,

And groan to find them fill'd with, docks and blue-bells from the wood,

Where the owners delve with might and main in gravel, mould, and clay;

And give their minds to that hard work and toil, that boys call play.

They would look askance at the arbour nigh, where haply they might see

A student grave with a dimpled cheek and a book upon his


A-reading of Aladdin's Lamp, or famous: Robin Hood.

Of simple Susan and her lamb, or the Children in the Wood.

Perhaps where green the terrace bank slopes downward to the


Where to her school the mistress now doth every morning pass;

Or where the nurse walks up and down with children at her knees,

Grew beds of borage long ago to feed the Friar's bees.

Perhaps where this young sycamore waves lightly over-head,
The Friars stood to give away the weekly dole of bread;
And thought to reach the gates of Heaven, by that more easy


And makes themselves a name on earth that never should decay.

This ancient wall of all their works is standing now alone; With here a range of rugged bricks, and there a rough-hewn stone.

O! well for us that little more doth of their works remain !
O! sad would be the day that saw the Friars here again !
-Rhyming Chronicle.


THERE was a tenseness on my heart,

A tenseness on my brow,

And such a weight of sorrow deep

I was indeed cast low.

But when I prayed, oh! then there came

As it were a beam of light;

Such a soft and gentle gleam,

As chased away my might.

And then I felt my brow was smooth,

My heart again had rest,

And all within was peace and calm,

In my poor troubled breast.

And this it was that gave me strength

-Strength, to support the ill;

Thou mad'st me feel, my gracious Lord,
It was Thine Holy Will.

Lyme Regis.

E. L. A.

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