{172} Abbot Cassian narrates of Abbot John that, when he was on his deathbed and preparing to depart with joyful soul, his brethren stood around him and earnestly besought that he would leave them as an heritage a compendium, as it were, of sanctity, by means of which they might rise to that perfection which is in Christ. Then he with sighs replied: I have never done my own will, nor have I ever taught any one anything which I have not previously done myself. Abbot Pastor said: To be watchful, to examine one's self, to be discreet, are the three great duties of the soul. They tell of Abbot Pambo that, when about to die, he said to those holy men who stood near: From the time when I first came to this place and built my cell and dwelt therein, I do not remember to have eaten bread that I did not gain by the labor of my hands, nor have I ever repented of any thing that I have said up to this very hour. And thus I go to the Lord, I who have not even begun to serve God. Abbot Sisois said: Be abject and cast pleasures away; be free and secure from the cares of the world, and you shall have rest. A brother once asked a father how one may acquire a fear of the Lord. And he replied: If a man practise humility and poverty, and judge not another, he shall surely fear the Lord. A certain father used to say: If thou hate one who speaks ill of thee, speak ill of no one; if thou hate him who calumniates thee, do not calumniate anyone; if thou hate him who injures thee or takes away what is thine, or does any thing of a like nature, do none of these things to any one. He who can observe this rule shall be saved. -------- All Souls' Day. 1866. On every cross or slab, a wreath--on some, Two, three, or more--of radiant autumn leaves, Mingled with gold and white chrysanthemum; Even the nameless, unmarked grave receives Some pledge from mortal love Unto peace-parted souls, we trust, with God above. The choral chaunt is hushed, the Mass is said: Noon, but already the last pilgrim gone: Brief visits pay the living to the dead, But once a year we meet o'er those we mourn. I wait unwatched, alone, To muse o'er some once loved, o'er many more unknown. {173} That cross of marble, with its sculptured base, Guards the blest ashes of a friend whose form Was half my boyhood; his arch, laughing face-- The last you'd take to front a coming storm, Or dare what none else durst: Read how he fell, of all the best and bravest, first! Another pastor near him lies asleep, Fresh wreaths, love-woven, mark the newer sod; Each lettered white cross bids me pause to weep Some lost companion or some man of God. Beneath this sacred ground, More friends I number than in all the world around.