Soothing me: knowest not thou, thou art in heav'n?
And know'st not thou, whatever is in heav'n,

Is holy, and that nothing there is done

But is done zealously and well? Deem now,

What change in thee the song, and what my smile
Had wrought, since thus the shout had pow'r to move
thee,

In which couldst thou have understood their prayers,
The vengeance were already known to thee,
Which thou must witness ere thy mortal hour.
The sword of heaven is not in haste to smite,
Nor yet doth linger, save unto his seeming,
Who in desire or fear doth look for it.

Cary's Dante.

From Martin Luther and His American Worshippers.

(American Catholic Quarterly Review, July, 1881.)

Modern taste unfortunately-and we may thank Luther's teaching for it-is no longer Christian, but pagan. Our heroes, too often nowadays, are made and held up for worship, not on the score of religion, virtue, or love of country, but because they are of the world, worldly, mouthpieces in word, or patterns indeed of the bad passions and corrupt inclinations that belong to unregenerate man. They have their use, too; for they are put up by a few bad men, and stand on their pedestals mute but eloquent witnesses of the cowardly servility that is an unfailing mark of all degenerate communities and peoples. Thus Greece of old, in her halls, groves, and high-ways, for one bust of Plato or Leonidas, had full twenty of Aphrodite, Eros, Priapus and adulterous Jove....Luther deserves no statue at the hands of the American people, nor in their chief city, for his teachings or any influence they may have exercised on civil and religious liberty. The idle boast that our political liberty has any connection with Martin Luther or his Reformation is sufficiently disproved by the fact that the liberties of Germany were effectually lost after Lutheranism had brought Germany under its influence, and nowhere more thoroughly than in Scandinavian Europe, where it became supreme without a ri Monsignor Cor

coran.

From Sweet Innisfallen.

S veet Innisfallen, long shall dwell
In memory's dream that sunny smile,
Which o'er thee on that evening fell,
When first I saw thy fairy isle.

'Twas light, indeed, too blest for one,
Who had to turn to paths of care-
Through crowded haunts again to run,
And leave thee bright and silent there;

No more unto thy shores to come
But on the world's rude ocean tost,
Dream of thee sometimes as a home
Of sunshine he had seen and lost.

Moore.

THE OROTUND.

The Orotund is a rich, deep, resonant chest-tone. It is the Pure Tone amplified. The volume of Pure Tone is increased when the sentiments, which Pure Tone conveys, become more elevated. Thus, in expressing our esteem, love, or mere admiration, we employ the simple Pure Tone. But when esteem heightens to reverence, love to adoration. admiration to awe, then the tone swells in harmony until it merges into what is called Orotund.

The Orotund requires deep breathing, great freedom, and a liberal opening of the vocal apparatus.

Examples.

From The Hidden Gem.

Father! who here this thing of clay didst fashion
Into Thine Image's terrestrial frame,

Its dust together hold, or free disperse,
Where rest my fathers, or as outcasts flung;
Make it the earthworm's, or the vulture's feast,
So that from its corruption flash my soul,
Into the furnace of thy purest fire:

Or rather, like a pearl, be gently dropped
Into the abyss of Tny great ocean-bosom,

To seek in vain for surface, depth, or margin,
Absorbed, yet unconsumed, entranced, yet, free.
Cardinal Wiseman.

From The Precious Blood.

It

Salvation! What music is there in that word,-music that never tires but is always new, that always rouses yet always rests us! It holds in itself all that our hearts would say. is sweet vigor to us in the morning, and in the evening it is contented peace. It is a song that is always singing itself deep down in the delighted soul. Angelic ears are ravished by it up in heaven; and our Eternal Father himself listens to it with adorable complacency. It is sweet even to Him out of whose mind is the music of a thousand worlds. To be saved! What is to be saved? Who can tell? Eye has not seen, nor ear heard. It is a rescue, and from such a shipwreck. It is a rest, and in such an unimaginable home. It is to lie down forever in the bosom of God in an endless rapture of insatiable contentment.-Father Faber.

From Threnodia Augustalis.

Be true, O Clio. to thy hero's name
But araw him strictly so

That all who view the piece may know

He needs no trappings of actitious fame....

For once, O Heaven, unfold thy adamantin L. ck:
And let his wondering senate see,

If not thy firm, immutable decree,

At least the second page of strong contingency,

Such as consists with wills onginally nice,

Let them with glad amazement look

On what their happiness may be:

Let them not still be obstinately blind,
Still to divert the good thou hast designed,
Or with malignant penny

To stain the royal virtues of his mind.

From Paradise. Canto XXX.

Dryden.

O prime enlightener! thou who gav'st me strength
On the high triumph of thy realm to gaze!
Grant virtue now to utter what I kenn'd.

There is in heav'n a light, whose goodly shine

Makes the Creator visible to all

Created, that in seeing him alone

Have peace: and in a circle spreads so far,
That the circumference wore too loose a zone
To girdle in the sun. All is one beam,
Reflected from the summit of the first,

That moves, which being hence and vigour takes,
And as some cliff, that from the bottom eyes

Its image mirror'd in the crystal flood,

As if to admire its brave apparelling

Of verdure and of flowers; so, round about,

Eyeing the light, on more than million thrones,
Stood, eminent, whatever from our earth

Has to the skies return'd.

Cary's Dante.

From The Bells of Stonyhurst.

Old College bells!

Your carol swells

Like angel chords, or voices fairy;

Within my soul

I hear you toll

In fancy still your Ave Maria.

Old bells, old bells!

Your music tells

Of joyous hours and friendships cherished,
Of smiles and tears, and golden years

And dreams and hopes that long have perished.

Ah, sweet and sad,
When evening glad

Gives rest to hearts with toiling weary,

By memories tolled,

Sweet bells of oid!

To hear again your Ave Maria.

P. J. Coleman.

From St. Herculanus.

"Perugians. stand!

Fight for the faith of fatherland;

Your leader I; strike, strike for God,

Your altars and your native sod."

His voice gives nerves the strength of steel,

Gives hearts the valor heroes feel;

One purpose gleams in every eye:

"On to the fight and victory!"