At last the day of her demise, January 11th, came. About half-past two on Saturday morning, two hours after communion, she passed from this vale of tears to her heavenly home. Her last agony was easy and calm. She lay quiet, occasionally murmuring the name of Jesus; and one of the bystanders heard her say: "Oh! how beautiful; oh! how beautiful." Her breathing grew weaker, and she fell gently asleep in death.
Her body was exposed in the church for two days, and thousands visited it. Many felt as if they had lost a member of their own family. She lay dressed as a bride, clothed in white, with a white veil on her brow, and a crown of flowers at her feet. Her face was beautiful to look upon, half-childlike in expression, yet mingled with the dignity of a matron; her head reclined, bent toward the left side; her brow and eyes were full of dignity; her mouth like that of an infant smiling in sleep; her hands white as alabaster, and ruddy as roses. Afterward the veil was taken away and she appeared more angelic than ever, her rich flowing hair surrounding her noble head. A look of perfect happiness beamed from her entire countenance.
Her burial was solemn. Surrounded by mourning and edified multitudes, her body was borne by young maidens from the catafalque to the zinc coffin prepared for its reception. Her remains were taken on January 13th to her father's family vault at Kaltern, where they now rest in peace.
Kaltern lost its jewel in losing Maria; but her virtues will live for ever in the hallowed spot where she was born, where she lived and died. Truly did Görres write of her to the Prince-Bishop of Trent: "God put her like a living crucifix on the cross-roads, to preach to a godless and dissipated people." She was one of those lamps lighted by the hand of God himself to shine in the darkness, when infidelity is abroad robbing and devouring in the vineyard of Christ. For this purpose she was sent by God, and hence we may well expect that the wonderful supernatural phenomena of her ecstatic life will not cease with her death.
A Summer Shower.
Welcome, O summer rain;
To thirsty hill and plain,
To desolate beds of streams of all their waves run dry.
We know who sent thee forth
From out the windy north,
To trail thy cooling fountains through the sultry sky.
The parchéd earth drinks up
The crystal-flowing cup;
The dusty grasses wash them emerald-green again:
The sweet, drenched roses sigh
In fragrant ecstasy;
The truant brooks foam down their glistening beds amain.
The robins, full of glee,
Answer from tree to tree;
'Neath dusky boughs the glancing orioles, aglow,
Mimic the vivid play
Of lightnings far away,
That southward toss their fiery shuttles to and fro:
While at the fall and lift
Of lights and shadows swift,
Titanic laughter rolls through all the bending skies,
And every water-bead
Trembles, but laughs, indeed,
And every insect quicklier breathes as low he lies.
O Heart! whose pity flows
To cheer the languid rose.
O Hand! outstretched to wake the brooklet's merry din,
Behold me like a blot
Upon this happy spot,
Where joys knock at my door, but never enter in!
Behold the arid ways
Through which my weary days
Tread with unfruitful steps that wander far from thee;
The wasted heart and brain,
All empty, save for pain;
Behold the hidden thorn which thou alone canst see;
And while my fainting sighs
Through nature's hymn arise,
O Comforter of flowers! leave not me to die!
But send thy heavenly rain
Unto my soul again,
Even to me, as grieving in the dust I lie!