Quid sum miser tunc dicturus? Quem patronum rogaturus, Cum vix justus sit securus? “No voice, no word, no whisper for my ear.” Rex tremendæ majestatis, Qui salvandos salvas gratis, Salva me, fons pietatis. “Cold, cold, cold in death!” Recordare, Jesu pie, Quod sum causa tuæ viæ, Ne me perdas illa die. “Strike up—louder—louder yet.” Quærens me sedisti lassus, Redemisti crucem passus, Tantus labor non sit cassus. “She loved the noise of trumpets, of sounds harmonious, the bustle of the earth.” Juste Judex ultionis, Donum fac remissionis, Ante diem rationis. “Louder, louder—no voice, no word, no whisper for my ear.” Ingemisco tamquam reus, Culpa rubet vultus meus: Supplicanti parce, Deus. “Gone, gone—thus runs the world away!” Qui Mariam absolvisti, Et latronem exaudisti, Mihi quoque spem dedisti. “Poor, poor, poor Anne!” Precos meæ non sunt dignæ, Sed tu, bonu, fac benigne, Ne perenni cremer igne. “In the grave is sleep and rest.” Inter oves locum præsta, Et ab hœdis me sequestra, Statuens in parte dextra. “Cold sleep, cold rest.” Confutatis maledictis, Flammis acribus addictis, Voca me cum benedictis. “Pass on, sweet spirit, to thy waking; if waking there may be.” Oro supplex, et acclinis; Cor contritum quasi cinis, Gere curam mei finis. “Our father, which art in heaven.” Lacrymosa dies illa Qua resurget ex favilla. “Hallowed be thy name.” Judicandus homo reus. Huic ergo parce Deus. “Amen.” We buried Anne, and upon the tablet which marks the place where she is laid I caused to be cut her last words—“We shall spring upward from the ground, winged, and with a power which will bear us swiftly to the throne which endureth forever and forever.” * * * * * THE DESERTED. BY MISS MATTIE GRIFFITH.