before his priests, and, in a voice broken by tears, asked pardon of every one present whom he might have in any manner treated unjustly. He died on the 16th of April, 1867, after a rapid but gradual decay whose termination he himself was the first to foresee, and his last hours were as beautiful and inspiring as his years of holy labor. FOOTNOTES: [7] _The Life and Times of the Right Rev. John Timon, D.D._, First Roman Catholic Bishop of Buffalo. By Charles G. Deuther. Buffalo: published by the Author. [8] Mr. Deuther incorrectly calls this Conevago. GUALBERTO'S VICTORY. A mountain-pass, so narrow that a man Riding that way to Florence, stooping, can Touch with his hand the rocks on either side, And pluck the flowers that in the crannies hide-- Here, on Good Friday, centuries ago, Mounted and armed, John Gualbert met his foe, Mounted and armed as well, but riding down To the fair city from the woodland brown, This way and that swinging his jewell'd whip, A gay old love-song on his careless lip. An accidental meeting--yet the sun Burned on their brows as if it had been one Of deep design, so deadly was the look Of mutual hate their olive faces took, As (knightly courtesy forgot in wrath) Neither would yield his enemy the path. "Back!" cried Gaulberto. "Never!" yelled his foe. And on the instant, sword in hand, they throw Them from their saddles, nothing loth, And fall to fighting with a smothered oath. A pair of shapely, stalwart cavaliers, Well-matched in stature, weapons, weight, and years, Theirs was a long, fierce struggle on the grass, Thrusting and parrying up and down the pass, Swaying from left to right, till blood-drops oozed Upon the rocks, and head and hands were bruised; But at its close, when Gualbert stopped to rest, His heel was planted on his foeman's breast; And, looking up, the fallen courtier sees, As in a dream, gray rocks and waving trees Before his glazing eyes begin to float, While Gualbert's sabre glitters at his throat. "Now die, base wretch!" the victor fiercely cries, His heart of hate outflashing from his eyes. "Never again, by the all-righteous Lord, Shalt thou with life escape this trusty sword! Revenge is sweet!" And upward flash'd the steel, But e'er it fell--dear Lord! a silvery peal Of voices, chanting in the town below, Rose, like a fountain's spray, from spires of snow, And chimed, and chimed, to die in echoes slow.