Ah! they have fought a gallant fight; In death's cold arms they persevered; And, after life's uncheery night, The harbor of their rest is neared. In pains beyond all earthly pains Fav'rites of Jesus, there they lie, Letting the fire wear out their stains, And worshipping God's purity. Spouses of Christ they are, for He Was wedded to them by His blood; And angels o'er their destiny In wondering adoration brood. They are the children of thy tears; Then hasten, Mother! to their aid; In pity think each hour appears An age while glory is delayed! See, how they bound amid their fires, While pain and love their spirits fill; Then, with self-crucified desires, Utter sweet murmurs, and lie still. Ah me! the love of Jesus yearns O'er that abyss of sacred pain; And, as He looks, His bosom burns With Calvary's dear thirst again. O Mary! let thy Son no more His lingering spouses thus expect; God's children to their God restore, And to the Spirit His elect. Pray then, as thou hast ever prayed; Angels and Souls all look to thee; God waits thy prayers, for He hath made Those prayers His law of charity. THE DEAD PRIEST BEFORE THE ALTAR. REV. A. J. RYAN. Who will watch o'er the dead young priest, People and priests and all? No, no, no, 'tis his spirit's feast, When the evening shadows fall. Let him rest alone--unwatched, alone, Just beneath the altar's light, The holy Hosts on their humble throne Will watch him through the night. The doors were closed--he was still and fair, What sound moved up the aisles? The dead priests come with soundless prayer, Their faces wearing smiles. And this was the soundless hymn they sung: "We watch o'er you to-night; Your life was beautiful, fair and young, Not a cloud upon its light. To-morrow--to-morrow you will rest With the virgin priests whom Christ has blest." Kyrie Eleison! the stricken crowd Bowed down their heads in tears O'er the sweet young priest in his vestment shroud. Ah! the happy, happy years! They are dead and gone, and the Requiem Mass Went slowly, mournfully on, The Pontiff's singing was all a wail, The altars cried and the people wept, The fairest flower in the Church's vale Ah me! how soon we pass! In the vase of his coffin slept. _--From In Memoriam._ MEMORIALS OF THE BEAD. R. R. MADDEN. [1] [Footnote 1: Author of "Lives and Times of United Irishmen."] 'Tis not alone in "hallowed ground," At every step we tread Midst tombs and sepulchres, are found Memorials of the dead. 'Tis not in sacred shrines alone, Or trophies proudly spread On old cathedral walls are shown Memorials of the dead. Emblems of Fame surmounting death, Of war and carnage dread, They were not, in the "Times of Faith," Memorials of the dead. From marble bust and pictured traits The living looks recede, They fade away: so frail are these Memorials of the dead.