But as the voice rose higher and more sweet,

The Abbot's heart said, "Thou hast heard us grieve, And sent an angel from beside Thy feet,

To sing Magnificat on Christmas Eve;

To ease our ache of soul and let us see

How we some day in heaven shall sing to Thee.”
Through the cold Christmas night the hymn rang out,
In perfect cadence, clear as sunlit rain—
Such heavenly music that the birds without

Beat their warm wings against the window pane,
Scattering the frosted crystal snow outspread
Upon the stone-lace and the window-lead.

The white moon through the window seemed to gaze
On the pure face and eyes the singer raised;
The storm-wind hushed the clamour of its ways,
God seemed to stoop to hear Himself thus praised,
And breathless all the Brothers stood, and still
Reached longing souls out to the music's thrill.
Old years came back, and half remembered hours,
Dreams of delight that never was to be,
Mothers' remembered kiss, the funeral flowers
Laid on the grave of life's felicity;
An infinite dear passion of regret

Swept through their hearts, and left their eyelids wet.

The birds beat ever at the window, till

They broke the pane, and so could entrance win;

Their slender feet clung to the window-sill,

And though with them the bitter air came in,
The monks were glad that the birds too should hear,
Since to God's creatures all, His praise is dear.
The lovely music waxed and waned, and sank,
And brought less conscious sadness in its train,
Unrecognized despair that thinks to thank

God for a joy renounced, a chosen pain—
And deems that peace which is but stifled life
Dulled by a too-prolonged unfruitful strife.
When, service done, the Brothers gathered round
To thank the singer-modest-eyed, said he:

"Not mine the grace, if grace indeed abound;
God gave the power, if any power there be;
If I in hymn or psalm clear voice can raise,
As His the gift, so His be all the praise!"
That night—the Abbot, lying on his bed—
A sudden flood of radiance on him fell,
Poured from the crucifix above his head,

And cast a stream of light across his cell—
And in the fullest fervour of the light

An Angel stood, glittering, and great, and white.
His wings of thousand rainbow clouds seemed made,
A thousand lamps of love shone in his eyes,
The light of dawn upon his brows was laid,

Odours of thousand flowers of Paradise

Filled all the cell, and through the heart there stirred
A sense of music that could not be heard.

The Angel spoke-his voice was low and sweet
As the sea's murmur on low-lying shore-
Or whisper of the wind in ripened wheat :
"Brother," he said, "the God we both adore
Has sent me down to ask, is all not right?-
Why was Magnificat not sung to-night?"
Tranced in the joy the Angel's presence brought,
The Abbot answered: "All these weary years
We have sung our best-but always have we thought
Our voices were unworthy heavenly ears;

And so to-night we found a clearer tongue,
And by it the Magnificat was sung."
The Angel answered, "All these happy years
In heaven has your Magnificat been heard;
This night alone, the Angels' listening ears

Of all its music caught no single word.
Say, who is he whose goodness is not strong
Enough to bear the burden of his song?"

The Abbot named his name. "Ah, why," he cried, "Have angels heard not what we found so dear?"

"Only pure hearts," the Angel's voice replied, "Can carry human songs up to God's ear;

To-night in heaven was missed the sweetest praise
That ever rises from earth's mud-stained maze.
"The monk who sang Magnificat is filled
With lust of praise, and with hypocrisy ;
He sings for earth-in heaven his notes are stilled
By muffling weight of deadening vanity;
His heart is chained to earth, and cannot bear
His singing higher than the listening air!

"From purest hearts most perfect music springs,

And while you mourned your voices were not sweet, Marred by the accident of earthly things,

In heaven, God, listening, judged your song complete. The sweetest of earth's music came from you,

The music of a noble life and true!"

The Story of the Faithful Soul.

The fettered Spirits linger
In purgatorial pain,
With penal fires effacing

Their last faint earthly stain,
Which life's imperfect sorrow
Had tried to cleanse in vain.

Yet, on each feast of Mary
Their sorrow finds release,
For the great Archangel Michael
Comes down and bids it cease;
And the name of these brief respites
Is called "Our Lady's Peace."
Yet once-so runs the Legend —
When the Archangel came,
And all these holy spirits
Rejoiced at Mary's name ;
One voice alone was wailing,

Still wailing on the same.
And though a great Te Deum
The happy echoes woke,

This one discordant wailing

Through the sweet voices broke;

So when St. Michael questioned, Thus the poor spirit spoke :"I am not cold or thankless,

Although I still complain; I prize our Lady's blessing, Although it comes in vain To still my bitter anguish, Or quench my ceaseless pain. "On earth a heart that loved me Still lives and mourns me there, And the shadow of his anguish Is more than I can bear; All the torment that I suffer Is the thought of his despair. "The evening of my bridal Death took my Life away; Not all Love's passionate pleading Could gain an hour's delay; And he I left has suffered

A whole year since that day. "If I could only see him,If I could only go

And speak one word of comfort
And solace, then, I know
He would endure with patience,
And strive against his woe."

Thus the Archangel answered :—
"Your time of pain is brief,
And soon the peace of Heaven
Will give you full relief;
Yet if his earthly comfort

So much outweighs your grief,
"Then through a special mercy
I offer you this grace,-

You may seek him who mourns you

And look upon his face.

And speak to him of comfort

For one short minute's space.

"But when that time is ended,
Return here, and remain
A thousand years in torment,
A thousand years in pain :
Thus dearly must you purchase
The comfort he will gain."

The Lime-trees' shade at evening
Is spreading broad and wide;
Beneath their fragrant arches,
Pace slowly, side by side,
In low and tender converse,
A Bridegroom and his Bride.
The night is calm and stilly,
No other sound is there
Except their happy voices:

What is that cold bleak air
That passes through the Lime-trees
And stirs the Bridegroom's hair?
While one low cry of anguish,
Like the last dying wail
Of some dumb, hunted creature,
Is borne upon the gale :-
Why does the Bridegroom shudder
And turn so deathly pale?

Near Purgatory's entrance
The radiant Angels wait;
It was the great St. Michael
Who closed that gloomy gate
When the poor wandering spirit
Came back to meet her fate.
"Pass on," thus spoke the Angel:
"Heaven's joy is deep and vast ;
Pass on, pass on, poor Spirit,

For Heaven is yours at last;
In that one minute's anguish

Your thousand years have passed."