Dodo, a powerful retainer of Pepin the lord of Herstal; and has been regarded by the Church as a Martyr in consequence of his patience and meekness. He is described as having thrown himself upon the ground, with his arms extended like a cross, and calmly waited for the approach of his murderers.

Fiercely from the northern mountains, blew the blast of winter's might, Darkly over cot and palace sank the long and grisly night,

And the silent snow fell gleaming, blotting out the green earth's face, And the ice-crowned king was conquering lakes and streams with speedy pace;

Yet he kneels before the symbol of his SAVIOUR's pangs and death,* Though the icy chill darts through him, and the snow-storm stops his breath,

Yes, he kneels before that symbol 'neath the dark and howling sky,
Though the life-stream in him curdles, though the Abbey gate is nigh.

Scanty is his fluttering raiment, and his head and feet are bare,
And the white snow hangs half frozen on his thin and whiter hair;
From his couch he just had risen to his prayer at dead of night,
For he knew that watchings only could avail him in the fight.

Matins now are past and over, and the morning hymn is done,
And the holy monks have issued from the chapel one by one;
And they all are now assembled at their thankful morning meal,
Still before the ice-clad symbol of CHRIST's death behold him kneel.

For the Abbat has commanded, and the Bishop will obey;
Little recketh he of suffering which so soon shall pass away;
And he turns him to the penance with a stout heart and a strong,
For the weight of future glory must be bought by struggles long.

But the Abbat sees his error, and he falls before his feet:
Pardon, holy sire; this penance is for such as thou unmeet."
Speak not thus of thy weak brother; GOD for suffering aye I bless;
'I must tame my flesh and spirit both by cold and nakedness."

46

Thus it was that God's good servants in the faithful elder days,
Made their every word and action aye set forth their Maker's praise;
Thus they taught that strict obedience must to human laws be given,
That through ways both hard and thorny man must seek his home in
heaven.

Blest be thy deep faith and patience, exiled Bishop, care-worn Saint,
Thou who 'midst sharp wrong and mis'ry didst not ever halt or faint;
Happy he who having suffered earthly sorrow, pain, and loss,
Yields him unto grim death calmly with his last thoughts on the Cross.

* On rising to his devotions one night in the monastery of Stavalo, he accidentally let fall his wooden slipper, and the Abbat thinking some one had broken the rule of silence, sent orders that the brother who had made the noise should go and pray before the Cross at the abbey gate. S. Lambert immediately obeyed,

VI.

SEPTEMBER 26.-S. CYPRIAN, ARCHBISHOP AND MARTYR.A.D. 258.

Thascius Cyprian was born of pagan parents of senatorial rank, at Carthage, where for many years he enjoyed the fame of being a distinguished orator and teacher of rhetoric. When past the prime of life, he was converted to Christianity, and baptized by Cæcilius, a Priest. Soon afterwards he was consecrated to the see of Carthage, vacant by the death of Donatus. In his time, persecution raged so fiercely that he was more than once obliged to withdraw, and remain in exile till its fury had somewhat abated. But he kept up a constant communication with his own and other Western Churches, by means of letters and treatises, many of which it has pleased GOD to preserve to us. He suffered martyrdom at the hands of the executioner, near Carthage, on the 14th of September, 258. Two churches were afterwards raised in his honour; one on the scene of his passion, the other containing his remains. His festival was transferred to September 26, in order that the martyrdom of another Cyprian, a Bishop of Antioch, in the fourteenth century, might be commemorated with his.

Ye, who in distant lands have musing stood,
Where Saints are gathered in their quiet grave,
Where side by side, in solemn brotherhood,
They rest secure and hear no tempests rave,-
Ye know the nightwinds, how they melt away,
Like fitful heavings of an infant's breath,
Whose Angels keep their ward with soothing lay,
Its dreams first saddened by the thought of death

Ye, the twin shrines and the memorial dust
Familiar know, to Afric's children dear,
Where Saints have lingered oft to watch and trust,
Where lonely mothers pray and Angels hear.*
Say, do ye weep and mourn this toilsome life,
Yearning impatient that your course were run?
Learn ye of Cyprian, faithful found, the strife
Whereby the Saints their golden crowns have won.
How troublous heaved his bark on earth's rude sea!
How dreary darkened round the night of sin,
All dull and slow, all wavering fretfully,
His heart o'ershadowed by the gloom within!
But there was Angel's joy in highest heaven,
To gaze on him writ in GoD's Book of love,
What time beside the font he knelt forgiven,
Cleansed by the SPIRIT-the life-giving DOVE.

* Alluding to Monica, S. Augustine's mother.

The champion rose, upon his brow imprest
The guardian seal, the token of new birth;
The world his war-field, ere the eternal rest
Be his, far from the pilgrim haunts of earth.
No more the ruddy gold his heart shall own,
In Heaven's rich treasury he counts his store;
No more for him high place of old renown,
Content to walk with CHRIST, forlorn and poor;

No more he spreads the lore of ancient sage,
No more he sues for fleeting praise of man;
He dwells in awe upon the hallowed page,
In that clear mirror saintly forms to scan.
Fain would he seek in meditative glade
Times of refreshing, ere the shadows fall,
Yet must he watch, that years of woe be made
As one brief day for love of His high call.
Chief watchman! many a month thy lonely tears,
Thine alms, thy secret fast, had sued for peace,
As one by one, like stars, when midnight wears,
Thou sawest the martyred from their labours cease.
Dark o'er the land the wasting tempest rolled,
High rose the vengeance-cry of sinless blood;-
Deeper the woe, that love was waxing cold,
And faith was passing from the fold of GOD.
Yet, stay thee patient in the world of scorn,
And as the past endure the ill to come;
Thy lingering here will haste the judgment morn,
The gathering of th' Elect in one bright home.
Thy life is hid with CHRIST, nor need'st thou fear
To glide amid the wasted streets of death.
Angel of wrath, thou sawest him meekly bear
Mysteries of life to soothe the parting breath.
Silently fleet life's lingering sands away,

The silvery crown girds round the old man's head;
He passeth soon from sickness of noon-day,
Discord, and toil, to slumber with the dead.
Deep in the midnight rest from homes of light,
An Angel brought a calm, prophetic dream,
The judgment set, the martyr's doom :---one night
On earth to tarry, ere the day-star beam.

Mourn not for him; his pure dream verified,
The wise confession of his brightest hour;

No pang to suffer at his Master's side,

Sleep 'neath the Cross, and wake in Eden's bower ;Mourn not, but muse: each Saint is as a gem

For ever set in yonder glorious zone,

Binding the cavern to the diadem

In mystic fellowship, -for ever One.

VII.

SEPTEMBER 30.-S. JEROM, PRIEST, CONFESSOR, AND DOCTOR. A.D. 420.

S. Jerom, the son of Eusebius, was born at Stridonium, a small town in Pannonia, about the year 342; and sent to Rome at an early age, and as yet unbaptized, to study under Donatus, a famous grammarian. After his studies were finished he entered the legal profession, and ere many years had passed he was baptized, and having entertained more serious thoughts of religious matters, he took a vow of celibacy. He went a journey to the East in 375, where he spent much time in seclusion and study. He was ordained priest at Antioch, by Paulinus, the Bishop, A.D. 378. After many labours in the East and West, and particularly at Rome, he died in peace at Bethlehem; and was interred in a vault among the ruins of his monastery, which had been destroyed by the Pelagians. To S. Jorom we owe most of the Vulgate Bible; and he wrote many other works, some of which were directed against the heresy of Pelagius, and the errors of Origen.

Oh ever as each passing year unfolds its varied page,
With fainter steps we travel on, a weaker softer age;

More greedy of life's passing joys, shrinking from earthly loss,
Weak warriors of the Crucified, faint children of the Cross.

With pageantry and pomp we strive to soothe our earth-bound sight,
And seek to stay the aching void with some new fond delight;
With all the toys that fancy paints life's failing cup we fill,
And when their hues begin to fade, seek something fairer still.

"Twere vain to tell of saintly men, the brave and strong of soul,
While o'er us deep and deeper still the deadening waters roll;
Each saintly name hath lost its spell: unheeded is the strain:
The eye is dim, the heart is faint: it cannot wake again.

Or, if perchance some strive to walk along the rugged way,
We give them pity for the task we shudder to assay;—
Till, scarcely blushing for our sloth we cannot choose but deem,
That saintly love, and faith, and strength are nothing but a dream.

And so the flood of time rolls on, day gliding after day,
While the cold sleep of apathy grows firmer in its sway;-
Unmindful of the unyielding faith which burned in saints of old,
Each early longing harshly quelled, each best affection cold.

Nay rouse thee, Christian; faint not thus, lest over thee prevail
The murmur of the impatient heart, and so thy spirit fail.

How know'st thou how with GoD may plead thy fasting and thy prayer?—

If so the precious flowers of faith may bloom again as fair.

Yea, onward! and to cheer thy soul from Bethlehem's sacred clime,
A saintly voice may aye be heard, borne o'er the waste of time:
It wakes the strength of former days: it pierceth far and wide,
Telling of glory, praise, and fame, full gladly cast aside.

Well hast thou fought the fight of faith, and few like thee have been
With armour bright and courage high, thou Priest of purpose keen;
Yet like thee may we labour on our path is still the same,
Though little of thy mighty strength may our dull efforts claim.

Then faint not, Christian soul! the world pursues its weary way
To sink in darkness, then to rise in never-ending day;
The jewels of our Father's crown for evermore shall shine;
In life and death, in woe and weal, O JESU, keep us Thine.

INSTRUMENTA ECCLESIASTICA.

Instrumenta Ecclesiastica. Edited by the Ecclesiological late Cambridge Camden Society. London: John Van Voorst.

MR. SEWELL Somewhere says, would he had said all things as well!—that every art and science has its Athanasian Creed as well as the Church. More especially must this be the case in those branches of art which are connected with the Church, both on account of the importance of their ultimate object, and the resemblance which in a certain degree they must bear to her whose ministers they are. And yet this truth for a long time found no acceptance among English Churchmen. Every parish Priest had his own ideas of Ecclesiastical beauty and propriety; and woeful ideas too often they were: and when a conviction was forced upon the English Priesthood that churches must as to essentials be built one way, as to their ornaments, every man followed the caprices of his own imagination.

"Ye shall not do as we do here this day, every man that which is right in his own eyes; for ye are not yet come unto the rest and the land which the LORD your God giveth you." No one who is in the slightest degree acquainted with the infinite importance of correct design in the fittings of churches, will call the quotation a light one; and, thanks to the Cambridge Camden Society, it is by no means so true an one as two years ago it would have been.