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I am alone.

Great hy nus fcat through

The shadowed aisies. I hear a sicw
Refrain, "Forgive them, for they know
Not what they do.”

With tender joy all others thrill;
I have but tears:

The faise priests' voices, high and shrill,
Reiterate the "Peace, good-will";
I have but tears.

I hear anew

The nails and scourge; then come the low, Sad words, "Forgive them, for they know Not what they do."

Close by my side the poor souls kneel;
I turn away;

Half-pitying looks at me they steal;
They think, because I do not feel,
I turn away.
Ah! if they knew,

How following them, where'er they go,
I hear, "Forgive them, for they know
Not what they do."

Above the organ's sweetest strains
I hear the groans

Of prisoners, who lie in chains,
So near, and in such mortal pains,
I hear the groans.

But Christ walks through

The dungeons of St. Angelo,

And says, "Forgive them, for they know
Not what they do."

And now the music sinks to sighs;
The lights grow dim:

The Pastorella's melodies

In lingering echoes float and rise;
The lights grow dim;

More clear and true,

In this sweet silence seem to flow
The words, "Forgive them, for they know
Not what they do."

The dawn swings incense, silver gray;
The night is past;

Now comes, triumphant, God's full day;
No priest, no church can bar its way:
The night is past;

How on this blue

Of God's great banner, blaze and glow
The words, “Forgive them, for they know
Not what they do!"

ST. JOHN LATERAN.

OF temples built by mortal hands,

Give honor to the Lateran first;

"T was here the hope of many lands The infant Church was nursed;

Helen Hunt.

And grew unto a great estate,

And waxed strong in grace and power,
With Christ for head and faithful mate,
And learning for her dower.

Since first this house to him was raised,
Three times five hundred years have run;
For this let Constantine be praised,
An English mother's son!

He with his own imperial sword
Did dig foundations broad and deep,
That henceforth in his hand the Lord
Rome and her hills should keep.

In after ages, one by one,

Arose the altars vowed to Heaven; Each crest is sacred now, but none

Like this of all the Seven!

Behold she stands! The Mother Church!
A queen among her countless peers!

Ah! open be that sacred porch

For thrice five hundred years!

Bessie Rayner Parkes.

THE LATERAN CLOISTERS.

THE very roses, thick with bloom,
Are golden in the golden light;

What sanctifies that belt of gloom?
What makes this court so bright?

Are other pillars half so rich,

So dainty delicate as these,

Which curl and twist like woodland niche Set in a frame of trees!

Two legendary stones are here,

And cast a mystery round the spot; Let none to whom his Lord is dear Say he believes them not!

Behold the well where Jesus stayed,
(The heart which questioned also nigh!)
And, "wearied with his journey," bade
To fountains never dry.

Until for her who stood beside
His words alone sufficed,

And as she went her way, she cried,
"But is not this the Christ!"

See measured on that pillar's round
The stature of his sacred head;
Let that be counted holy ground
Of which such things are said.

And do not weigh what men believe,
When thus from age to age is told
A tale which eager hearts receive
With love that grows not cold.

A garden blessed by many prayers,
And centuries of sacred fame,

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So pluck the golden Lateran rose

Which blooms about each ancient stone;
And faith which towards a legend flows

Shall not be left alone!

Bessie Rayner Parkes.

THE PANTHEON.

CIMPLE, erect, severe, austere, sublime,

SIMPLE,

Shrine of all saints, and temple of all gods, From Jove to Jesus, - spared and blest by time;" Looking tranquillity, while falls or nods

Arch, empire, each thing round thee, and man plods His way through thorns to ashes, — glorious dome ! Shalt thou not last? Time's scythe and tyrants' rods sanctuary and home

Shiver upon thee,

Of art and piety,

- Pantheon! - pride of Rome!

Relic of nobler days and noblest arts!
Despoiled yet perfect, with thy circle spreads
A holiness appealing to all hearts,

To art a model; and to him who treads
Rome for the sake of ages, Glory sheds
Her light through thy sole aperture; to those
Who worship, here are altars for their beads;
And they who feel for genius may repose

Their eyes on honored forms, whose busts around them

close.

Lord Byron.

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