of earthly honour paid by church and state to the bones of the poor Moorish slave, already raised into the state of veneration, if not as yet of beatification.
In a letter addressed to MM. the Presidents of the Councils of the Work of the Propagation of the Faith at Lyons and Paris regarding the Venerable Geronymo, the Bishop of Algiers describes the magnificent ceremonial of the removal of the remains to the cathedral, which took place upon the 28th of May, 1854. This ceremony immediately followed the benediction of the first stone laid of the Parc d'Artillerie, commenced near the site of the demolished fort. Monseigneur de Pavy writes:—"After the benediction, we mounted the rock of the Twenty-Four Hours and arrived in the presence of the remains of Geronymo. There it became once more my duty to verify their identity, and I called forward as witnesses all the persons who had assisted at the various previous inquiries. Each one of these witnesses, having examined the bones and affirmed their identity, signed upon the spot the declaration to be sent to the Congregation of Rites. I made use of this opportunity solemnly to return public thanks to the authors of this precious discovery,—to M. Berbrugger, who, through his anterior publications, so to speak, was its prophet; and to M. le Capitaine Suzzoni, who had been, as it were, the evangelist, through the zeal with which he had brought the relics to light."
The cortège reached its destination—the cathedral, passing through an immense concourse of respectful people.
Monseigneur de Pavy goes on to say: "We placed (on arrival) the shrine, together with the precious bones which it contained, in a small sacristy, of which I kept the key. On the morrow, the block was placed in a chapel devoted to the Venerable Geronymo. I shall place therein, as I have been authorised to do, the precious remains, in the same state in which they were found, so soon as the work of encasing the block (in marble) is at an end, which will be within a few days."
"Thus," truly observes M. Berbrugger, "have been verified the prophetic words of the historian Haedo, written above two centuries and a half ago."
"We await through the Divine Goodness the arrival of a day when Geronymo shall be drawn forth from the spot, to be laid in a more honourable and suitable place, to the glory of the Lord!"
LOST SYRINX.
(b.c. 100.)
Pan was old, and bleared, and wan,
Bent with the weight of thousands of years,
We peasants bad long ceased worshipping him,
Or bringing him kids, or lambs, or steers;
No turf was now piled for such offerings,
On down, or in forest, by pools or springs.
Yet still, where the kingfisher flitted and dived,
Down by the rippling pebbly shallows,
He sat, still watching the bulrushes bow
To a spectre line of half-starved willows,
From under a chapp'd and dodder'd tree,
Backed with old age and with penury.
The yellow flag flowers knee-deep spread,
All in bloom and so golden bright,
The swallows were weaving over the pools,
The cast was flushing with crimson light;
The bees were in the wild rose sipping,
The fawns down every dell were tripping.
The shepherds piped from the distant hill.
The wild notes rang through the sloping copse,
And all the hyacinth bells began
To chime together, as through the tops
Of the myrtle bushes a whisper came,
Breathing a well-remember'd name.
For it was Spring, and the earth was glad,
The blue sky laugh'd with the dimpling cloud,
The streams ran fast, and the birds began
Their songs, as merry as they were loud,
And every leaf on the aspen-tree
Seem'd to be dancing in ecstasy.
With feeble eye, and a languid ear,
The old god listen'd, as soft there rang
The song of a thrush, from the ilex top,
Flutiug the name that it ever sang—
It was Syrinx' soul that had come to see
Pan in his age and his misery.
The herdsmen shouted, but still that bird,
High on the topmost ilex spray,
Told of love and hope and the golden age
Blent in one innocent roundelay.
'Twas strange, that where Pan sat, thickest grew
A little flower of the heaven's own hue.
"Forget-me-not" they call that flower;
And Pan, when the breeze stole through the reeds
Arose and cull'd the tallest tube
That in the soft ooze thirsty feeds,
And fashion'd a pipe, then, under a fir,
Sat and sang all that day of her.
He play'd! and the deep notes gurgling came,
As from the throat of a nightingale,
With his youthful skill his fingers sped,
And the music flow'd through the wooded vale,
The wild goat rested beside the spring,
The birds were all silent listening.
He sang of the better, earlier world,
Ere Astræa pass'd away,
Of the syrens and satyrs, and dryads and nymphs
That in sea and in forest play,
And, last of all, of that maid so fair,
Who wore no crown but her golden hair.
