And if he come, say, 'Bid us, blessed Lord- The mass was said; the evening chant was We and our master-to thy heavenly board.' o'er; Hushed its long echoes through the lofty dome; And now Bernardo knew th' appointed hour That he had prayed for of a truth was come. Alone he lingered in the solemn pile aisle, Except that through a distant doorway | And there we leave them. Not for us to see The feast made ready that first act to crown, Nor to peruse that wondrous mystery Of the divine Menino's coming down To lead away th' elect expectant three With him that night at his own board to be. Suffice it that with him they surely were That night in Paradise, for they who came Next to the chapel found them as in prayer Still kneeling, stiffened every lifeless frame, With hands and eyes upraised, as when they died, Toward the image of the Crucified. That mighty miracle spread far and wide, And thousands came the feast of death to see, And all beholders, deeply edified, Returned to their own homes more thoughtfully, He followed where those young ones led the Musing thereon, with one great truth im way To that small chapel; like a golden clue Streamed on before that long bright sunset ray, Till at the door it stopped. Then, pass ing through, The master and his pupils side by side Knelt down in prayer before the Crucified. Tall tapers burnt before the holy shrine; Chalice and paten on the altar stood, Spread with fair damask. Of the crimson wine Partaking first alone, the living food Bernardo next with his dear children shared-Young lips, but well for heavenly food prepared. prest― HEN midnight hour is come, Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly And marches, beating his phantom-drum, I swore To and fro through the ghastly gloom. He plies the drumsticks twain With fleshless fingers pale, And beats and beats again and again A long and dreary reveille. Like the voice of abysmal waves Till the dead old soldiers long in their But sorrow returned with the dawning of And the slain in the land of the Hun, And the frozen in the icy North, morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted And those who under the burning sun graves away. THOMAS CAMPBELL. Of Italy sleep, come forth, |