I.
She knelt, expectant, through the night:
For He had promised. In her face
The pure soul beaming, full of grace,
But sorrow-tranced—a frozen light.
But, ere her eastward lattice caught
The glimmer of the breaking day,
No more in that sweet garden lay
The buried picture of her thought.
The sealed stone shut a void, and lo!
The Mother and the Son had met!
For her a day should never set
Had burst upon the night of woe.
In sudden glory stood He there,
And gently raised her to his breast:
And on his heart, in perfect rest,
She poured her own—a voiceless prayer.
Enough for her that he has died,
And lives, to die again no more:
The foe despoiled, the combat o'er,
The Victor crowned and glorified.
II.
What song of seraphim shall tell
My joy to-day, my blissful queen?
Yet truly not in vain, I ween,
Our earthly alleluias swell.
It is but just that we should thus
Our Jesus' triumph share with thee.
For us he died, to set us free.
Thou owest him risen, then, to us.
But thou, sweet Mother, grant us more
Than here to join the festive strain:
To hymn, but never know, our gain
Were ten times loss for once before.
Thy faithful children let us be.
Entreat thy Son, that he may give
The wisdom to our hearts to live
In his, the risen life, with thee.
For so, amid the onward years,
This feast shall bring us strength renewed;
To pass secure, o'er self subdued,
To Easter in the sinless spheres.
Two Months In Spain During The Late Revolution.
September 9, 1868.
To-day, while they are yet celebrating the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin, we enter Spain, that mysterious world behind the Pyrenees, so different from all others, and of which we know so little! To-day is also the anniversary of my birthday into the Catholic Church, and now it is my birthday into Catholic Spain! "La tierra de Maria Santisima."
Leaving Perpignan (in the Pyrénées Orientales) by diligence, we pass through a most tropical looking country, amidst hedges of aloe, and oleander, and pomegranates, (reminding one of Texas in the character of the soil, the productions, and even the houses;) we soon begin the ascent of the mountains; and, before it is quite dark, we are across the Pyrenees. By the light of a beautiful sunset we have some grand mountain views, and encounter a group of Spanish gypsies, dark, ragged, and dirty, but highly picturesque. All along these mountains are cork-trees of prodigious size, with black, twisted trunks, from which the bark has been stripped—their fantastic shapes taking the form of nuns or monks—great ghosts in the dim light. Perthus, on the other side the mountains, is the last French town; high above which towers the fortress of Bellegarde, built by Louis XIV. in 1679. Just outside this town we pass a granite pyramid, on which is written "Gallia." A fellow-passenger tells us we are on Spanish soil. All cry, "Viva España!" and we look out upon a solemn-looking soldier, who stands by a cantonnier, above which floats the red and yellow flag of Spain. La Junguera is the first Spanish town; and here is a rival fort to the towering French one so lately seen. Here our luggage is visited, and we have our first experience of Spanish courtesy. The gentlemen passengers all come to ask, "Will the ladies have fruit?" "Will they have wine?" And one of our party, wishing to give alms to a blind beggar, and asking change for a franc, one of the gentlemen gives her the money in coppers, and refuses to take the franc; which, it seems, is the Spanish custom.
At Figueras we eat our first Spanish supper; no inconsiderable meal, if we may judge by this one. First came the inevitable soup, (puchero;) then, boiled beef; next in course, cabbage and turnips, eaten with oil and vinegar, and the yellow sweet-pepper which is the accompaniment to everything, or may be eaten alone, as salad. The third course was stewed beef; next, fried fish, (fish, in Spain, never comes before the third course;) and now, stewed mushrooms; but, as they are stewed in oil, (and that none of the sweetest,) we pass them by. After this, lobster; then cold chicken and partridge; and now the delicious fruits of the country, and the toasted almonds which are universal at every meal, and cheese. Coffee and chocolate terminate this repast, for which we pay three and a half francs, and after which one might reasonably be expected to travel all night.
Gerona appeared with the early dawn; a curious old town of 14,000 inhabitants, on the river Oña, and looking not unlike Rome with its yellow river, its tall houses, and balconies. Both this town and Figueras have made themselves memorable in wars and sieges. Indeed, what Spanish town has not its tale of heroism and brave defence during the French invasion of 1809-11? These towns were both starved into capitulation, after sieges which lasted seven or eight months, the women loading and serving the guns during the siege, and taking the places of their fallen husbands or lovers, like the "Maid of Saragossa." We were glad to leave the diligence for the railway which runs by the lovely Mediterranean coast, passing many pretty towns with ruins of old Moorish fortresses and castles on the hills beyond. In one of these towns, Avengo de Mar, the dock-yards are very famous, and a naval school was here established by Charles III.