ST. IGNATIUS LOYOLA AT THE CHAPEL OF OUR LADY OF MONTSERRAT.

‘ Tis midnight, and solemn darkness broods

In a lonely, sacred fane —

The church of Our Lady of Montserrat,

So famous throughout all Spain;

For countless were the pilgrim hosts

Who knelt at that sacred shrine

With aching hearts, that came to seek

Relief and grace divine.

Pure as the light of the evening star

Shines the lamp's pale, solemn ray,

That burns through midnight's hush and gloom,

As well as the glare of day,

Like the Christian soul, enwrapped in God,

Resigning each vain delight,

Each earthly lure, to burn and shine

With pure love in His sight.

Softly the gentle radiance falls

On a mail-clad warrior there,

Who humbly bows his stately head

In silent, earnest prayer;

It flashes back from his corslet bright,

From each shining steel clad hand,

And the brow which tells that he was born

To pomp and high command.

Say, who is he, that vigil keeps,

Like the warrior knights of old,

Through the long lone hours of the silent night,

Ere they donned their spurs of gold?

A soldier brave and proud is he,

And bears a noble name,

Since Pampeluna's glorious day

Won Loyola his fame.

What doth he at this lowly shrine?

What mean those prayers and sighs,

The tearful mist that dims the light

Of his flashing, eagle eyes?

They tell of life's vain pomps and pride

Esteemed as worthless dross,

For the dauntless soldier has become

The soldier of the Cross.

That sword, that once like lightning swept

Through ranks of foes hard pressed,

Now hangs beside Our Lady's shrine,

Henceforth in peace to rest,—

And soon the penitent's rough, dark robe,

His girdle and cowl of gloom,

Will replace the soldier's armor bright,

And his lofty, waving plume.

Well done, well done, thou warrior brave!

A noble choice is thine!

What are the laurels of earth beside

The joys of bliss divine?

And thou hast won, though seeking not,

The saint's undying fame —

Christ's Holy Church will evermore

Revere and bless thy name!