There was I stationed thenceforth to abide, I learn'd to live with nature, and to God. "My home was Pelegrino's rocky cell; My only friends the wild birds of the wood; "Celestial minds, believe me, for the woes Now bring thee down a message from on high; Of health again shall bloom, the plague shall fly :- To be the guardian of my native place. "Girt with that holy faith which falters not, Go thou with morning, and, from out the stones, "And then shall pass away the brooding gloom, The loved the quickly lost-and long deplored.' † * Gather together my unburied bones-Brydone scandalizes the memory of the good old Abbot, by alluding to the proverb, that those who hide are the readiest to find," and that probably the bones of Rosalie were not her bones at all. We cannot countenance such shocking scepticism, more especially as the "tourist and traveller" `gives us no other proof of imposition than his mere ipse dixit. He thinks that "the holy man probably could have given a very good account" of the relics found in the grot, and that likely they were as little entitled to honour as those of St Viar, which were found somewhere in Spain under a broken tombstone, when these were the only legible letters. They were discovered by some priests to have an excellent knack at working miracles, from which considerable revenues were drawn; till, unfortunately, these made application to Pope Leo the Tenth to grant some immunities. His holiness not being entirely satisfied with the saintship, a list of the miracles was sent to him, together with the broken tombstone. The first were sustained as genuine, but the latter having been proved to be part of a monument erected over a Roman præfectus viarum, the name of poor St VIAR was ordered to be struck out of the Calendar. As the best proof that this is no proof at all, St Rosalia still remains there. Q. E. D. The loved-the quickly lost-and long deplored.-In the Sicilian language is an epic poem, of which St Rosalia is the heroine. The author at once sets her above all saints save the Virgin, whom he hardly excepts. From his work it appears, that our heroine was niece to King William the Good-that she early displayed symptoms of sanctity, and, at fifteen, disclaimed all human society. Retiring to the mountains "With downcast earnestness my listening ear To gaze upon the heavenly guest, well-pleased; Silently, breathlessly, around him stood, Like men escaped from some tremendous doom Midday had broken upon midnight's gloom; Accursed, came Hope each pale face to illume; Again, and yet again, that sea of sound Surged up to heaven, and then the joyous crowd- Up Pelegrino's rocky sides they clomb, The old man in the midst, and there, on high, Upon its floor, amid the rugged stones, The treasure which they sought for-mouldering bones The mouldering bones of sainted Rosalie, Which there, unnoticed and unknown, had lain, While spring, through centuries five, had green'd the tree, Was solemn, and gave birth to thoughts sublime. Thus, from her trance of darkness, into day And, from its dreaded and destructive power, To vacant homes the household gods once more. westward of Palermo, she was never more heard of for five hundred years. Her disappearance being in the year 1159, she was supposed to have been taken up to heaven, till her bones were discovered in 1624, during a dreadful plague that devasted the island. These were found lying in a cave near the summit of the Monte Pelegrino, by a holy man who was led to them by a heavenly vision, and told that, by carrying them thrice round the walls of Palermo, the pestilence would be stayed. So was done-and St Rosalia became the greatest saint in the calendar. secret from him were found to be useless, and he was condemned to perpetual imprisonment. The place of his incarceration was the tower of the officiality attached to the archbishop's palace: and here he remained four years, quietly occupying himself with his books, which he was allowed to have, and amusing himself by writing a history of the diocese of Paris, which still exists in manuscript. During this period, the Comte d'Estral died; and the Abbé Décorieux became forgotten; he was visited by no one except an old woman and a young clerk, who used to come to him frequently. One evening, and for the first time, the young clerk visited him alone in his cell, and after prevailing on the Abbé to let him stay behind when the jailors came to lock up the cellsa duty in which they were by no means strict-he persuaded the Abbé to attempt to escape with him that night by means of a rope-ladder which he had brought concealed under his dress. He said they would both go to Rome, and get pardon from the Pope; he had means of support for both of them, and he could guarantee the success of his enterprise. The Abbé consented. Just as eleven o'clock struck by the bell of Notre Dame, a heavy sound, as of something falling, was heard in the court of the palaces, and then a piercing cry. The guardians of the prison rushed to the spot, and found the mutilated bodies of the Abbé and the young clerk the rope-ladder had broken; they had fallen from a considerable height; the Abbé was quite dead, but the clerk was still alive. The latter turned his head slowly round, and said, "God be blessed for having allowed me, before calling me to his presence, to give testimony before men: the Abbé Décorieux has never ceased to be perfectly virtuous and pure. May God forgive me! and grant that I may not survive him!" Here his lips grew white, his eyes closed, and he expired! One of the guardians, thinking that he had only fainted, unbuttoned his habit to give him air-when he found that it was a female!-it was Mademoiselle d'Estral!-The archbishop, on being informed of the circumstance, ordered the Abbe's body to be buried in the cloisters of Notre Dame, and the remains of the unfortunate young lady were interred in the church of St Mederic, where, up to the time of the Revolution, a marble slab on her monument commemorated the tragical tale. THE PRISONER OF GHENT. BY B. SIMMONS. [Ghent, May 5, 1841. "On Monday last, the Nestor of captives died here in prison-Pierre Joseph Soete was condemned in 1773 to be broke on the wheel for having murdered a young girl. He was then seventeen years of age. The Empress Maria Theresa commuted his punishment to imprisonment for life. In 1814 he was set at liberty by Count Bichaliff, the bettman of the Cossacks, whose headquarters were in this city; but being destitute of the means of subsistence, of relations, and friends, he requested to be allowed to return to the same prison which had been so long his abode. quest was granted, and he remained in the Rasphuis twenty-seven years more, (in all sixty-three years,) and died on Monday, at the age of eighty. TIMES Newspaper, 10th May, 1841.] STAND from my path, you solemn pair, Nor block the gateway to the dead- Where I may once again be born, May know what means the breeze of morn, Then share-as it before befell Some blinding dungeon's endless hell. The re See, through my cell's late-opened door, Of daylight, that from broad blue skies Gray monk!-my countless years have pass'd Of sunshine on their opening way. Say thou, who preachest man was sent With high beneficent intent, Why my unripen'd soul was hurl'd, Ere Reason's cup had cool'd my lips- Down, down where demons have their place One hour was mine of lovely things, They said 'twas Mercy saved me so- When whelm'd, enchain'd, and choked beneath Its victim rots away. I should not then have felt my mind, Who that had heard me strive to break With shouts that ceaseless solitude, Till my faint gasp refused to shriek, And mine became the Idiot's mood; When strength of youth and manhood's might To moping, soundless torpor grew, And the sick undiscerning sight One blank interminable night Of burial only knew; Who then had deem'd the driveller there Plough'd by the Avenger's fiery share Of love, life, light, once drank his fill, Yes!-give me back one year of bloom, So once again I may but rove That thing of radiance and of love— Oh but to watch her on this breast, The bow of heaven had less of grace This heart with fire was all too full; I sought one eve our trysting-tree, She came at last. I drank the start, I had a right-who taught her first Not sweeter went our early hours, You know the rest-ye felon's friends!The sands of hideous grief are run; Nor tell me, when Earth's thraldom ends, That Heaven's is but begun. I dare not deem the creed divine, That from this parting hour would tear May from the Judgment-threshold's shine From my life's page, the hand of shame Swept hope, love, memory, fortune, name. The rest-Remorse, fear, frenzied woeRemember THOU to whom I go! |