The cloudless sun of southern clime
Shone full that Christmas Day,
As the city of the Cæsars
Held regal holiday.
For Him whose gracious advent,
Hailed in seraphic tone,
The saved of earth, and saints in Heaven
In grateful praises own.
Full loud above the city's hum
Pealed forth cathedral chime;
While round the loftiest, proudest dome,
Wreathed harmony sublime,
Which thrilled among those ruins vast
That long have braved the skies;
Proud monument of Pagan hate
And Christian sacrifice.
Rejoicing echoes filled the breeze
That fanned the martyrs' tombs;
Fit requiem! they sowed the seed
Which now triumphant blooms.
Where Reason held its vaunted sway,
Firm-leagued with Godless might,
Round storied urn, through marbled halls
Loud shriek the birds of night.
Whilst borne along the sounding waves
Which fleck the furthest shore,
That light of life, that perfect faith
Sealed with the martyrs' gore.
But, within that regal city,
On that bright Christmas Day,
In hectic flush of fever heat
A stranger student lay.
A stranger from a distant land
Across the western sea,
Where peace doth reign, and howe'er poor
Man feels that he is free.
Of faith inspired, he'd crossed the foam
And left his native sod,
That he his years might consecrate
To winning souls for God.
No higher aim was ever sought,
No purer soul was shriven;
For the whole purpose of his life
Unto his Lord was given.
A noble matron sat beside
And soothed his dying bed;
One who, with mother's tenderness,
Had wept _her_ early dead.
Sore, sore it grieved that mother's heart!
When fever's pulse beat high
And reason reeled, the parchèd lips
Gave forth the wailing cry,
"Oh! take me to that far-off land
Where cool sea-breezes blow;
Where wintry sun doth smiling shine
Athwart the pure, white snow.
"Oh! thither wist I to return
Fraught with my mission high,
To bear the standard of the Cross
Beneath my native sky.
"For this my spirit waked to zeal
Where soft the sunlight falls;
For this I craved the higher lore
Of Propaganda's halls."
Then "list the strains of music!
Now loud, now soft and clear;--
It is the voice of wavelets sweet
Which greets my listening ear.
"Brimful of glee, it seems to me,
They ripple o'er the strand,
As when they sang the lullaby
Of our dear, household band.
"Mark how the lustrous, Autumn glow
Illumes the reddening leaves;
The genial harvest-tide is past,
And gathered in, the sheaves.
"Now there--yes! through the waning light
I see the little stile;--
A few steps more--how dark it grows!
Home in Prince Edward Isle."
But as, o'er the calm of evening
Breathed forth the vesper hymn,
The visions of fancy faded,
The clear, blue eyes waxed dim.
The hectic flush evanished
Before cold Pallor's hand;
Ended the warfare, hushed the voice--
Hushed in the silent land.
And the soul of the fair young dreamer
Went up with music's swell;
Whilst Victory's pæans grandly soared
High o'er earth's parting knell.
And though to his home and kindred
He cometh ne'er again,
The memory of his bright young life
The years will aye retain.
And aye, as the festive season falls,
On fair St. Lawrence Bay,
They mourn the student who died in Rome
On that bright Christmas Day.