At The Shrine.

The sunset's dying radiance falls

On chancel-gloom and sculptured shrine,

A splendor wraps the pictured walls,

Where painted saints in glory shine!

And blent with sweet-tongued vesper-bells,

Through echoing aisles and arches dim

The organ's solemn music swells,

The sweetly chanted evening hymn.

Low at Our Lady's spotless feet

A white-robed woman kneels in prayer:

The Deus Meus murmurs sweet,

While Glorias throb on perfumed air;

Before the circling altar-rail

She breathes her Aves soft and low—

The golden hair beneath her veil

Wreathed like a glory on her brow.

The sunset's purple splendors fade,

The dark'ning shades of twilight fall,

The moonbeam's silver touch is laid

On sculptur'd saint and pictur'd wall;

And while the weeping watcher kneels,

And silence weaves her magic spells,

The gray dawn thro' the oriel steals,

And morning wakes the matin-bells.

Advent, 1872.