NOTE.—The reader is referred for a more full exposition of the relation of the supernatural to the natural order, and the other principal topics belonging to the subject of the future destiny of man, to the following works: _Aspirations of Nature_, by the Rev. I. T. Hecker; _Problems of the Age_ and _The King’s Highway_, by the Rev. A. F. Hewit; _Catholicity and Pantheism_, by the Rev. J. de Concilio; _The Knowledge of Mary_, by the same author; and _Catholic Eschatology_, by H. N. Oxenham. LINES. SUGGESTED BY ST. FRANCIS DE SALES’ TREATISE ON THE “LOVE OF GOD.” O precious book! in lines of fire I see Upon each page the record of a soul Which soared above the clouds, serenely free, Which read with eagle eye the mystic scroll; To whose ecstatic love th’ Eternal Three Sublime and hidden mysteries did unroll. A heart, a living heart, is throbbing here! A heart whose every fibre[41] thrilled to One Unknown to human wisdom, yet most clear To him, whose spirit, as a luminous sun, Caught from the splendors of high heaven’s sphere, A light for centuries set in shadows dun. O shadows dark and sad! with prophet-gaze Did he foresee your baneful, blinding cloud Enwrap man’s reason, soul, and heart? the ways Of God enveloped in a death-like shroud Of folly, prejudice, and pride? Amaze Had seized that noble soul! Yet he had bowed ’Neath persecution’s fury; toiled with heart Undaunted, while upraised were savage hands To strike, as Jews of old, the deadly dart. Through sufferings borne with joy he won those bands, Through burning zeal and (his own heavenly art) Divinest meekness, which all power commands. What secret charm had he so early learned Which made a joy of pain? of sacrifice His life-long pleasure? Soul and heart had burned Within love’s fiery crucible where dies Nature and self and sense; for God he yearned; For God and souls were poured his nightly sighs. Thou sacred volume, fruit of years of prayer, Of holy contemplation, seraph love, Dost unto me this hidden charm declare; With his own life each word is interwove. His holy pen would oft, methinks, repair To Calvary’s shade or to the olive grove, And, deep within the Wounded Side, would seek The living flame, as strong as death, which breathes In each dear line. Methinks he still doth speak, And with celestial sweetness still bequeathes His dying legacy of love; his meek And gentle lessons in the soul inwreathes Like flowers, the garden of the Spouse to grace.