The inscription on his tomb was chosen by himself:
"Lord, when I have seen thy glory, I shall be satisfied with it."
These words were as a key to his life. An insatiable, ardent desire for God had possessed him, animated his actions; and at last the very ardor of his longings wore out the feeble body that enclosed so grand and beautiful a soul.
From The Dublin University Magazine.
SONNET.
Upon a rose-tree bending o'er a river
A bird from spring to summer gaily sang;
For love of its sweet friend, the rose, for ever
Its beating heart with happy music rang,
In sunshine warm and moonlight by the shore,
Whose waves afar its voice melodious bore,
Blent with its own. But when, alas! the sere
Grey autumn came, withering those blooms so dear,
Still full of love but full of sadness too,
Changed the sweet song as changed the rose's hue
Mourning each day some rich leaf disappear
Until the last had dropped into the stream,
Anguished by wintry breezes blowing keen.
Then, on the bough forlorn, mute as a dream.
Awhile the poor bird clung, and soon was seen no more.
From Once a Week.
CARDINAL TOSTI.
BY BESSIE RAYNOR PARKER.
It was in the afternoon of Friday, the 23d of March, that Rome heard of the death of the "learned and venerable Tosti." This aged cardinal, long the director of the great establishment of San Michele, (which is a hospital and school combined,) had attained to nearly ninety years. Now he was dead, and laid out in state in his own room at San Michele, whither we went about five o'clock, and, threading the vast corridors, which run round a court blossoming with oranges and lemons, ascending a long flight of stone stairs, got into upper regions filled with a perceptible hum, soldier sentinels stationed by the opened doors, who motioned us on from room to room till we came to the last of all. These rooms were perfectly empty of all furniture, save a few book-cases under glass; but the yellow satin walls of one, and the delicately-tinted panels of another, showed that they had but lately formed the private apartments of him who was gone. Three or four temporary altars were erected in the empty space, adorned by tall unlighted candles. A thrill crept over us as we neared that last open door, a silent sentinel at either side; as we crossed the antechamber, and came in a direct line with the aperture, we saw a figure, splendidly attired, reposing on a great sloping couch of cloth of gold. The face of this figure indicated extreme age; the brow was surmounted by the bright scarlet berretta, which caught the light from the setting sun. The shrunken frame was clothed in the soft purple of its ecclesiastical rank. The hands were crossed and held a crucifix; the feet were turned up in new and pointed shoes. There he lay, Cardinal Tosti, who for five-and-twenty years was the handsomest of all the Sacred Conclave, and towered above his brethren when they walked in procession, drawing the admiration of beholders.