Conclusion.
Now reft of all, faint, feeble, prest with age,
We mark her feelings in the last great stage;
The feverish hopes, the fears, the cares of life,
No more oppress her with torturing strife;
The chivalrous spirit of her early day
Has passed with beauty and with youth away.
As oft the traveller who beholds the sun
Sinking before him ere yet his journey's done,
Regrets in vain to lose its noontide power,
Yet hails the coolness of the evening hour,
She feels a holy and divine repose
Rest on her spirit in the twilight close;
Although her passions ruled in their might,
Now vanquished, brighter burns the inward light,
Guiding the spirit by its sacred ray
To cast its mortal oil and cares away,
And list its summons to eternal day.
Tossed on a restless ocean, and surviving a long and stormy voyage,
how the sight of the verdant hills and spires of the nearing port
must cheer the wearied mariner! Joy has its sunbeams to light up
every countenance. Merry the song that keeps tune with the revolving
capstan. Old memories are awakened and dormant affections roused;
the husband, the father, the exile, each has a train of though laden
with bright anticipations. Fancy and hope hasten to wave their magic
wings over the elated heart, and contribute the balm of ideal charms
to make even one moment of mortal life a happiness without alloy.
The wearied mariner returning home, quaffing a cup of joy, is a faint
but truthful simile to represent the pious soul in sight of the port
of eternal bliss, where loved ones are hailing from afar their welcome
to the successful mariner from the troubled sea of time. Life has
its storms and its calms, its casualties and dangers; it also has the
bright twilight in the shadow of those eternal hills where existence
is immortal and joy beatific and unclouded.
Alvira, the heroine of our sketch, is now the faithful soul standing
on the bark in view of her eternal home.
The consolations promised by her sainted guardian have twice tolled
the death knell; once more some great joy will strike the last fibre
of her heart long tuned to spiritual happiness, and will break the
last chain that imprisons a spirit longing to soar on high.
In the deceptive phases of the consumptive malady she rallied at times;
she felt stronger--would venture out to the homes of the poor, and
faint at the alter of Jesus. In her weakness she did not moderate
her austerities, save where the express command of her spiritual
director manifested to her the will of God. Her little cottage was
surrounded daily by the poor and sick, who were her friends, and many
and sincere were the blessings invoked over their benefactress.
Long and interesting were her conversations with her brother Louis.
Her history as known to herself must have been replete with many
striking events besides those we have caught up from a scanty tradition
and a brief pamphlet biography. How the secrets of her rambles in
disguise must have brought the smile and the blush to the countenance
of her simple-minded and sainted brother!
In deep and natural fraternal affection, which is more powerful when
mellowed by virtue, Pere Augustin saw the hand of death making each
day new traces on the frame of Alvira. The hectic flush, the frequent
faintings, and the cold, icy grasp of her hand told the energy of
the poison that gnawed at the vital cords. Sweet and gentle words
of encouragement ever flowed from his lips. With eye and finger ever
turning towards heaven, whither his own soul yearned, he calmed the
anxious and penitent spirit of Alvira, who still feared her repentance
was incomplete.
She received Holy Communion every day from the hands of her brother.
What ecstasies of grateful love filled her breast when preparing for
those blissful moments of union with our Blessed Lord! Deep and
eloquent the mysterious breathings of the pure, loving heart. It has
a language known and understood only by angels. As the sun melts the
rocky iceberg, the coldest heart melts under the loving, burning
Sun of the most Holy Eucharist.
At length the bark is anchored in the port of rest; Alvira is summoned
to her crown.
The midnight of July 16, 1717, finds her in her agony; the blest candle
is lighted; the faithful brother priest is kneeling by her bed; the
solemn wail of the privileged few of the grateful poor is carried in
mournful cadence from the chamber of death.
Yet the bell has not tolled the third stroke of consolation. Could
she have misunderstood the prophetic voice of her sainted Father
Francis, who knew the secrets of God in her behalf? But no; the favor
will come--the last crowning, ineffable favor will come; it is at hand.
Alvira has opened her eyes. She calls her brother near; with a smile,
the sweetest that ever lit up those expressive features, she told him
what the favor would be. Father Francis and the Blessed Virgin would
see her before she should die.
Pere Augustin believes the shock of approaching dissolution has weakened
her reasoning faculty; he gently chides her, whispers some sweet
thought of humility, and breathes the holy name that banishes
temptation.
But, lo! Alvira's features have changed; a glow of ecstatic beauty
has suffused around her; the light of another land is shed on her
couch. Recognition is read on her looks.
Pere Augustin, whose innocence and virtue entitled him to understand
the privileges of the saints, saw the splendor of a heavenly light
that filled the room, and heard from Alvira's lips expressions that
left no doubt on his mind of the promised visit of celestial beings.
The light faded, and from the feeble glare of the candle of death he
saw the holy spirit of his sister had fled; the sweetness of heavenly
joy still played on her marble features, and the smile that greeted
the heavenly visitors still rested on her lips.
Pere Augustin stood over the couch he had bedewed with tears, and
taking a long and affectionate glance at the hollowed form of his
repentant sister, turned towards the weeping people; he raised his
hand towards heaven, and solemnly announced the event that gave a
festival to the angels. His voice faltered; he pronounced a short
and eloquent panegyric--"A saint is dead!"
The tableau is worth remembering; 'tis the last beautiful scene in
the eventful career of Maria Alvira Cassier!
End of Project Gutenberg's Alvira: the Heroine of Vesuvius, by A. J. O'Reilly