SELECTION FROM FR. FABER.
CONSOLATRIX AFFLICTORUM.
LIKE the voiceless starlight falling Through the darkness of the night, Like the silent dewdrops forming
In the cold moon's cloudless light, So there come to hearts in sorrow Mary's angels dear and bright. Like the scents of countless blossoms That are trembling in the air, Like the breaths of gums that perfume Sandy deserts bleak and bare, Are Our Lady's ceaseless answers To afflictions lowly prayer.
They are endless, they are countless,
Like the leaves upon the trees;
They are teachings sweetly hidden
Like the fragrance in the breeze;
They are spirits to the drooping,
Like the freshness from the seas.
They are not like earthly comforts,
Nor like anything on earth,
They are peacefuller than slumber,
They are cheerfuller than mirth;
They are light to all life's darkness,
They are plenty to its dearth.
They are presences and foretastes
Of some nameless heavenly things,
From the golden throne of Mary
Wafted down to us on wings;
Yet they come to none but mourners,
To the hearts that sorrow wrings.
They are wondrous thoughts of Jesus,
They are presences of God,
Giving zest to weary sadness,
Or strange sweetness to the rod,
Filling full of heavenly sunbeams
Sorrow's dark and lone abode.
For they come into our spirits
With a soft and winning might,
And they make our dead look brighter
In the waking hours of night,
And they gently turn our darkness
Into depths of tenderest light.
Oh! it is as if some fragments
Of the golden calms of heaven,
By the mercy of our Father,
Into Mary's hands were given;
But to earth were only falling
Upon hearts with sorrow riven,
For in Mary's ear all sorrow
Singeth ever like a psalm;
Welcome, Mother! are the tempests
Which thou layest with thy calm;
Sweet the broken hearts thou healest
With thine own heart's nameless balm!
Он it is sweet to think
Of those that are departed, While murmured Aves sink To silence tender hearted,
While tears that have no pain
Are tranquilly distilling,
And the dead live again
In hearts that love is filling.
Yet not as in the days
Of earthly ties we love them; For they are touched with rays From light that is above them: Another sweetness shines
Around their well known features; God with His glory signs
His dearly ransomed creatures.
Yes, they are more our own,
Since now they are God's only,
And each one that has gone
Has left our heart less lonely.
He mourns not seasons fled,
Who now in Him possesses
Treasures of many dead
In their dear Lord's caresses.
Dear dead! they have become
Like guardian angels to us;
And distant heaven-like home
Through them begins to woo us;
Love that was earthly wings
Its flight to holier places;
The dead are sacred things
That multiply our graces.
They whom we loved on earth
Attract us now to heaven;
Who shared our grief and mirth
Back to us now are given.
They move with noiseless foot
Gravely and sweetly round us,
And their soft touch hath cut
Full many a chain that bound us.
O dearest dead! to heaven
With grudging sighs we gave you,
To Him-be doubts forgiven!
Who took you there to save you :-
Now get us grace to love
Your memories yet more kindly,
Pine for our homes above,
And trust to God more blindly.
THE CHRISTIAN SLAVE.
THE YOUTHFUL MARTYRS.-ACT I, SCENE I.
Hast thou no gentle note to swell withal
This chorus of sweet music? Ever mute,
When others press around with words complacent ? Hast no kind wish to proffer, naught to claim
Of service meet and loyal?
My only wish is thou mayst be happy.
And, for myself, what praise were justly hers
Who does but duty, when she does her best?
Fabiola.
This dull morality mislikes me, Slave;
Praise, surely, is but kindness in disguise.
What boots my praise, poor servant that I am,
To her who, from the lips of orators,
Well used to turn and point the cunning phrase,
Hears all she can desire (forgive the thought)
And more than she believes? and shall a slave
Gain credence for her vulgar flatteries,
Which polish'd eulogists can scarce command ?
Hast thou to learn then, slave, that thou art mine? Mine to command, to move, to play upon,
Like some obsequious instrument, at will?
Know, then, proud menial, that thy voice is mine, E'en as thy limbs; an't please me to command
Its tutor❜d modulations, or its notes
Less strain'd and artful of colloquial grace,
Thy duty is, nay privilege, to please
On whom thy life depends.
My life, most gracious lady, yea, mine all,
That is of earth, health, vigour body, breath,-
'Tis thine by purchase, and is thine to use;
Thy gold hath bought it, and it is thy property;
But I have that within me which no wealth
Of man can purchase, no dominion claim,
No chains embarrass, and no limit bound.
Lady, I have no skill in high philosophy,
Nor find my thoughts their ready vehicle
In strict scholastic phrase; but I can feel
That power within me which
surpasses speech.
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