I perish by accident,
see that my body is conveyed to the Paraclete. There, my daughters, or
rather my sisters in Christ, seeing my tomb, will not cease to implore
Heaven for me. No resting-place is so safe for the grieving soul,
forsaken in the wilderness of its sins, none so full of hope as that
which is dedicated to the Paraclete--that is, the Comforter.

Where could a Christian find a more peaceful grave than in the society
of holy women, consecrated by God? They, as the Gospel tells us, would
not leave their divine Master; they embalmed His body with precious
spices; they followed Him to the tomb, and there they held their vigil.
In return, it was to them that the angel of the resurrection appeared
for their consolation.

Finally, let me entreat you that the solicitude you now too strongly
feel for my life you will extend to the repose of my soul. Carry into my
grave the love you showed me when alive; that is, never forget to pray
Heaven for me.

Long life, farewell! Long life, farewell, to your sisters also! Remember
me, but let it be in Christ!

Translated for the 'World's Best Literature.'

THE VESPER HYMN OF ABELARD

Oh, what shall be, oh, when shall be that holy Sabbath day,
Which heavenly care shall ever keep and celebrate alway,
When rest is found for weary limbs, when labor hath reward,
When everything forevermore is joyful in the Lord?

The true Jerusalem above, the holy town, is there,
Whose duties are so full of joy, whose joy so free from care;
Where disappointment cometh not to check the longing heart,
And where the heart, in ecstasy, hath gained her better part.

O glorious King, O happy state, O palace of the blest!
O sacred place and holy joy, and perfect, heavenly rest!
To thee aspire thy citizens in glory's bright array,
And what they feel and what they know they strive in vain to say.

For while we wait and long for home, it shall be ours to raise
Our songs and chants and vows and prayers in that dear country's
praise;
And from these Babylonian streams to lift our weary eyes,
And view the city that we love descending from the skies.

There, there, secure from every ill, in freedom we shall sing
The songs of Zion, hindered here by days of suffering,
And unto Thee, our gracious Lord, our praises shall confess
That all our sorrow hath been good, and Thou by pain canst bl