A MIDSUMMER MEMORY.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume V, Issue 237, 16 November 1877, Page 7

A MIDSUMMER MEMORY.

(By Eleanor C. Donnelly, in the uive Maria.)

I. We sat among the graves that summer gloaming I and my gentle friend, Soeur Amad6e ; — Beyond the fence with honeysuckle blooming The convent-garden in the twilight lay, Its dewy blossoms filling all the air With incense, like the memory of prayer. A few fair stars the pleasant skies were sprinkling, And over cv'ry grassy mound and tomb Unnumbered fire-flies were twinkling, twinkling Their tiny splendours thro' the tleep'ning gloom ; The Sister laid her slender hand on mine And said, '• How wondrously they float and shine ! " How pure yet how pathetic is the glory These little creatures bear beneath their wings ! Methinks the precious souls from Purgatory Are mimicked in the fiery floating things. Oh ! had we angel-eyes we might discern How tranquilly those spirits float and burn ! " See ! " — and she raised the chaplet from her girdle, " One little bead may win a soul's release : Let us not loiter here, serene and idle,

While snff 'ring spirits call to us for peace ! " — And to and fro we paced, and passing said The holy chaplet for the waiting dead.

11. Twilight again : and here again I ponder

The mystery that curtains nameless tombs : A few faint stars are out, and over yonder

The convent-garden in the dimness blooms, Its well-remember 'd odors o'er me cast, As in that quiet gloaming of the past. I sit alone, no figure veiled and saintly

Leans thro' the purple silence as to speak, The clear eyes raised, the wild-rose tinging faintly The white transparent oval of her cheek. Between that face and mine there sways a screen Of churchyard grass and periwinkle green. Wet, wliisp'ring grass, — low, waving periwinkle, — Beneath the dewy roots she lieth, fair In sleeping loveliness ; and lo ! the twinkle Of floating fire-flies is in the air : So pure yet so pathetic in their glory, Like little glowing souls from Purgatory ! O dear departed spirit ! art thou near me ?

Dost come in gentle flames, lost Amadee, To hover 'round thy grieving friend ? Ah ! hear me, Thou shalt not go uncomforted away ; For love shall build a bridge of Ayes blest Whereby thy soul shall enter into rest.