"O Death! thou teacher true and rough! Full oft I fear that we have erred, And have not loved enough; But, O ye friends! this side of Acheron, Who cling to me to-day, I shall not know my love till ye are gone And I am gray! {216} Fair women, with your loving eyes, Old men that once my footsteps led, Sweet children--much as all I prize, Until the sacred dust of death be shed Upon each dear and venerable head, I cannot love you as I love the dead! "But now, the natural man being sown, We can more lucidly behold The spiritual one: For we, till time shall end, Full visibly shall see our friend In all his hands did mould-- That worn and patient hand that lies so cold!" On a Palm-Sunday, as he wends his way to the bedside of a dying young convert, he begs of a little Catholic girl a twig of the blessed palm she is carrying home. Whereupon he extemporizes the following: "To A Young Girl Dying: With A Gift Of Fresh Palm-leaves. "This is Palm-Sunday: mindful of the day, I bring palm branches, found upon my way: But these will wither; thine shall never die-- The sacred palms thou bearest to the sky! Dear little saint, though but a child in years, Older in wisdom than my gray compeers! _We_ doubt and tremble--_we_, with 'bated breath, Talk of this mystery of life and death; Thou, strong in faith, art gifted to conceive Beyond thy years, and teach us to believe! "Then take my palms, triumphal, to thy home, Gentle white palmer, never more to roam! Only, sweet sister, give me, ere thou go'st, Thy benediction--for my love thou know'st! We, too, are pilgrims, travelling toward the shrine: Pray that our pilgrimage may end like thine!" Mr. Parsons's poetical gift manifests itself most sensibly in what might be called "fugitive pieces." They are gems, like the above, and as they are offered to the reader they are at once set in the most fitting corner of his heart. We regret our limited space will not allow us to transcribe the poems _To Magdalen_, "Mary from whom were cast out seven devils;" or the death of _Mary Booth_; or the _Vespers on the Shores of the Mediterranean_, when the Italian mariner "In mare irato in subita procella Invoca Te nostra benigna Stella." But we must be allowed to quote one little poem; an impromptu one, written on the death of a Catholic prelate (February 13th, 1866) whose memory is held in benediction by a vast number of our readers: