Restless he paced the deck until he saw the sails unfurled Of the ship which was to bear him to that new and distant world; And when his comrades stood with him and watched the lessening land, His clear laugh rose the loudest 'mid that gay gold-seekers'

band.

In changing moods of grief and mirth the ocean way was pa.s.sed, And all were weary, when the cry of "Land" was heard at last.

Like birds escaped from thraldom long, the happy, smiling crowd Thronged to the deck with eager looks, rejoicing long and loud.

Yet one was missing 'mid that band who foremost should have been, Whose hopeful heart had cheered them oft when winds blew fierce and keen; And when dead calms or drizzling rains made the ocean way seem long Had wiled the time with lively tale, with jest, or stirring song.

But a sudden change had come o'er him, his ringing voice was hushed, The smooth young cheek grew pallid, or, at times, was deeply flushed; And now he lay in his lonely cot, a prey to sickness drear, His frame all filled with racking pain--his heart with doubt and fear.

"Oh, raise me up," he faintly breathed, "that I one glance may win Of that long looked for promised land I ne'er may enter in; Till I recall the tender words of friends, well loved of old-- The friends I left without a pang, in idle search for gold."

The Exile's prayer was soon obeyed, and round his fevered brow The cool land breeze is playing, but death's damps are on it now!

His spirit pa.s.sed from earth away as Sol's last dying beams Lit up the golden Eldorado of all his boyish dreams.

THE GIRL MARTYR.

Upon his sculptured judgment throne the Roman Ruler sate; His glittering minions stood around in all their gorgeous state; But proud as were the n.o.ble names that flashed upon each shield-- Names known in lofty council halls as well as tented field-- None dared approach to break the spell of deep and silent gloom That hover'd o'er his haughty brow, like shadow of the tomb.

While still he mused the air was rent with loud and deaf'ning cry, And angry frown and darker smile proclaimed the victim nigh.

No traitor to his native land, no outlaw fierce was there, 'Twas but a young and gentle girl, as opening rose bud fair, Who stood alone among those men, so dark and full of guile, And yet her cheek lost not its bloom, her lips their gentle smile.

At length he spoke, that ruthless chief, in tones both stern and dread: "Girl! listen! mark me well, or else thy blood be on thy head!

Thou art accused of worshipping Jesus the Nazarene-- Of scorning Rome's high, mighty G.o.ds,--speak, say if this has been?

I fain would spare thee, for thy name among our own ranks high; Thine age, thy s.e.x, my pity move, I would not see thee die!

"If thou hast dared at foreign shrine to rashly bend the knee, Recant thine errors, and thy guilt cancelled at once shall be."

Undaunted spoke she, "In His steps unworthy have I trod, And spurned the idols vain of Rome for Him, the Christian's G.o.d.

I fear not death, however dread the ghastly shape he wear, He whom I serve will give me strength thy torments all to bear."

Darker than e'en the darkest cloud became her judge's brow, And stern the threats he thundered forth. "What dost thou dare avow?

Retract thy words, or, by the G.o.ds! I swear that thou shall die!"

Unmoved she met his angry frown--his fierce and flashing eye: "Nay, I have spoken--hasten now, fulfil thy direful task, The martyr's bright and glorious crown is the sole boon I ask."

Fierce was the struggle raging then within her judge's breast, For she, that girl, in tones of love, he once had low addressed; And lowly as his haughty heart at earthly shrine might bow He'd loved the being, young and bright, who stood before him now.

With iron might he'd nerved himself to say the words of fate, To doom to death the girl he sought--but sought in vain--to hate.

Yet now, e'en in the final hour, 'spite of his creed of crime, His ruthless heart and fierce belief, love triumphed for a time.

"Irene! girl!" he wildly prayed, "brave not Rome's fearful power!

Mad as thou art, she'll pardon thee, e'en in the eleventh hour; Cast but one grain of incense on yon bright and sacred fire, And outraged as thy rulers are, 'twill calm their lawful ire!"

"Bend but thy knee before the shrine where we've so often knelt, Joined in the same pure orisons--the same emotion felt; Forsake a creed whose very G.o.d with scorn was crucified--, Irene, hear me, and thou It be again my life and pride!"

He pressed the censer in her hand, of which one single throw Would have restored her all the state, the bliss, that earth might know;

But she, inspired by heavenly grace, the censer dashed aside: "I've said I but believe in Him who on Mount Calvary died!"

He spoke no word, her cruel judge had hurled his glittering dart; Barbed with relentless rage, it found his victim's dauntless heart.

She but had time to breathe a prayer that he might be forgiven, And in that breath her spotless soul had pa.s.sed from earth to heaven.

CORNELIA'S JEWELS.

Among the haughtiest of her s.e.x, in n.o.ble, quiet pride, Cornelia stood, with mien that seemed their folly vain to chide: No jewels sparkled on her brow, so high, so purely fair, No gems were mingled 'mid her waves of dark and glossy hair; And yet was she, amidst them all, despite their dazzling mien, A woman in her gentle grace--in majesty a queen.

While some now showed their flashing gems with vain, exulting air, And others boasted of their toys, their trinkets rich and rare, And challenged her to treasures bring that shone with equal light, Proudly she glanced her dark eye o'er the store of jewels bright.

"Rich as these are," she answered then, "and dazzling as they shine, They cannot for one hour compete in beauty rare with mine!

"You all seem doubtful, and a smile of scorn your features wear, Look on my gems, and say if yours are but one half as fair?"

The Roman matron proudly placed her children in their sight Whose brows already bore the seal of intellectual might; She pressed them to her, whilst each trait with radiance seemed to shine, And murmur'd, "Tell me, dare you say, your jewels outshine mine?"

ST. FRANCIS OF BORGIA BY THE COFFIN OF QUEEN ISABEL.

"Open the coffin and shroud until I look on the dead again Ere we place her in Grenada's vaults, Where sleep the Monarchs of Spain; For unto King Charles must I swear That I myself have seen The regal brow of the royal corpse, Our loved, lamented Queen."

The speaker was Borgia, Gaudia's Duke, A n.o.ble and gallant knight, Whose step was welcome in courtly halls, As his sword was keen in fight.

To him had his Monarch given the task Of conveying to the tomb.

The Princess ravished from his arms In the pride of youthful bloom.

While they slowly raised the coffin lid, Borgia stood silent by, Recalling the beauty of the dead With low, half-uttered sigh-- Longing to look on that statue fair That wanted but life's warm breath, That matchless form which he hoped to find Beautiful e'en in death.

'Tis done, and with silent, rev'rent step To the coffin draws he near, And sadly looks in its depths, where lies Spain's Queen, his sovereign dear.

But what does he see? What horrors drear Are those that meet his eye, For he springs aside and shades his brow With a sharp, though stifled, cry?

Ah' youth and beauty, in spirit gaze On what that coffin holds-- On the fearful object that now lies In the shroud's white ample folds: Nay, turn not away with loathing look, Lest that hideous sight you see, In a few short years from now, alas!

It is what we all shall be.

Let us learn as Francis Borgia learned, By that lifeless form of clay, To despise the changing things of earth, All doomed to swift decay-- Deep into his heart the lesson sank, Effacing earthly taint, And Spain's Court lost a gallant knight, While the Church gained a Saint!

ST. IGNATIUS LOYOLA AT THE CHAPEL OF OUR LADY OF MONTSERRAT.

'Tis midnight, and solemn darkness broods In a lonely, sacred fane-- The church of Our Lady of Montserrat, So famous throughout all Spain; For countless were the pilgrim hosts Who knelt at that sacred shrine With aching hearts, that came to seek Relief and grace divine.

Pure as the light of the evening star Shines the lamp's pale, solemn ray, That burns through midnight's hush and gloom, As well as the glare of day, Like the Christian soul, enwrapped in G.o.d, Resigning each vain delight, Each earthly lure, to burn and shine With pure love in His sight.

Softly the gentle radiance falls On a mail-clad warrior there, Who humbly bows his stately head In silent, earnest prayer; It flashes back from his corslet bright, From each shining steel clad hand, And the brow which tells that he was born To pomp and high command.