lower edge with saffron color. Silver-leafed trees, the white marble of villas, and the arches of the aqueducts, stretching through the plain toward the city, were emerging from shade. The greenness of the sky was clearing gradually and becoming permeated with gold. Then the east began to grow rosy and illuminate the Alban Hills, which seemed marvelously beautiful, lily-colored, as if formed of rays of light alone.

The light was reflected in the trembling leaves of the trees, in the dewdrops. The haze grew thinner, opening wider and wider views on the plain, on the houses dotting it, on the cemeteries, on the towns, and on the groups of trees, among which stood white columns of temples.

The road was empty. The villagers who took vegetables to the city had not succeeded yet, evidently, in harnessing beasts to their vehicles. From the stone blocks with which the road was paved as far as the mountains, there came a low sound from the bark shoes on the feet of the two travelers.

Then the sun appeared over the line of the hills; but at once a wonderful vision struck the Apostle's eyes. It seemed to him that the golden circle, instead of rising in the sky, moved down from the heights and was advancing on the road. Peter stopped, and asked, "Seest thou that brightness approaching us?" "I see nothing," replied Nazarius.

But Peter shaded his eyes with his hand, and said after a while,

"Some figure is coming in the gleam of the sun."

But not the slightest sound of steps reached their ears. It was perfectly still all around. Nazarius saw only that the trees were quivering in the distance, as if some one were shaking them, and the light was spreading more broadly over the plain. He looked with wonder at the Apostle.

"Rabbi! What ails thee?" he cried, with alarm. The pilgrim's staff fell from Peter's hands to the earth; his eyes were looking forward, motionless; his mouth was open; on his face were depicted astonishment, delight, rapture.

Then he threw himself on his knees, his arms stretched forward; and this cry left his lips,

"Master! Master!"

He fell with his face to the earth, as if kissing some one's feet.

The silence continued long; then were heard the words of the aged man, broken by sobs,

"Where goest thou, Master?"

Nazarius did not hear the answer; but to Peter's ears came a sad and sweet voice, which said,

"If thou desert my people, I am going to Rome to be crucified a second time."

The Apostle lay on the ground, his face in the dust,

without motion or speech. It seemed to Nazarius that he had fainted or was dead; but he rose at last, seized the staff with trembling hands, and turned without a word toward the seven hills of the city. The boy, seeing this, repeated as an echo, "Where goest thou, Master?”

"To Rome," said the Apostle, in a low voice. And he returned.

HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ.

TO THE EVER BLESSED VIRGIN

Virgin Mother, Martyr, Saint,

Purest, fairest! Who shall paint
Beauty peerless, free from taint?

Thou, Perfection's highest crest!
Thou, of saints the very best!
Thou, beloved beyond the rest!

From thy bounteous mercy seat
Grant me, prostrate at thy feet,
What thy wisdom judges meet;

Till I may to heaven soar,

There forever to adore

Him whom Thou, chaste Virgin, bore.

- MONSIGNOR JOHN S. VAUGHAN.

THE BELLS OF SHANDON

With deep affection and recollection,

I often think of those Shandon bells, Whose sound so wild would, in days of childhood, Fling round my cradle their magic spell.

On this I ponder where'er I wander,

And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork, of thee;
With thy bells of Shandon,

That sound so grand on

The pleasant waters of the River Lee.

I've heard bells chiming full many a clime in,
Tolling sublime in cathedral shrine;

While at a glib rate brass tongues would vibrate,
But all their music spoke naught like thine;
For memory, dwelling on each proud swelling
On thy belfry, knelling its bold notes free,
Made the bells of Shandon

Sound far more grand on

The pleasant waters of the River Lee.

I've heard the bells tolling old Adrian's Mole in,
Their thunder rolling from the Vatican,

And cymbals glorious, swinging uproarious
In the gorgeous turrets of Notre Dame:

But thy sounds were sweeter than the dome of Peter Flings o'er the Tiber, pealing solemnly.

O! the bells of Shandon

Sound far more grand on

The pleasant waters of the River Lee.

There's a bell in Moscow; while on tower and kiosk, O!

In St. Sophia the Turkman gets,

And loud in air calls men to prayer,

From the tapering summits of tall minarets.
Such empty phantom I freely grant them;
But there's an anthem more dear to me;

'Tis the bells of Shandon,

That sound so grand on

The pleasant waters of the River Lee.

-FRANCIS MAHONY.

The glories of our blood and state

Are shadows, not substantial things;

There is no armor against fate,

Death lays his icy hand on kings.

Scepter and crown

Must tumble down,

And in the dust be equal made

With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

-JAMES SHIRLEY (1660).