Friends at Court

New Zealand Tablet, 21 August 1913, Page 3

Friends at Court

GLEANINGS FOR NEXT WEEK’S CALENDAR August 24, Sunday. Fifteenth Sunday after Pentecost. ~ 25, Monday. — St. Bartholomew, Apostle. ~ 26, Tuesday. — St. Zephyrinus, Pope and Martyr. ~, 27, Wednesday. St. Joseph Calasanctius, Confessor. ~ 28, Thursday.—St. Augustine, Bishop, Confessor, and Doctor. ~ 29, Friday.—Beheading of St. John the Baptist. ~ 30, Saturday. —St. Fiacre, Confessor. St, Zephyrinus, Pope and Martyr. St. Zephyrinus became Pope in 202, the year in which the Emperor Septimus Severus began a general persecution of the Church throughout the Roman Empire. His pontificate, extending over seventeen years, was troubled by many heresies, which the Holy Pontiff resolutely combated. Whether his death was that of a martyr, or this title was given him on account of his previous sufferings for the Faith, cannot be accurately determined. St. Augustine, Bishop, Confessor, and Doctor. St. Augustine was born in Algeria in 354. In spite of the watchful care of his mother, St. Monica, he gave himself up in his youth to many excesses. When he was thirty-three years of age, the prayers of his pious mother at length obtained for him the grace of a complete conversion. During the remainder of his life he endeavored to undo the evil which his teaching and example had wrought. He composed, in defence of the Faith, a long series of treatises, which have rendered his name illustrious throughout the world as one of the most profound, ingenious, and prolific writers that have adorned the Church of God. During thirty - five years he governed the See of Hippo, in Africa, and showed himself endowed with all the virtues which form the character of a perfect Christian Bishop. He died in 430, at the age of 76. GRAINS OP GOLD 0 flowers fair, unto the world God-given Earth stars that waken from a dewy sleep To smile upon your glittering twins in heaven That ward and watch in wind-swept spaces keep. Your fragrant chalices are gently swaying ’Mid woodland aisles and o’er the garden sod, In perfumed, wordless prayers forever saying Their Matins and their Vespers unto God. The little feathered acolytes are singing A thrilling chorus near each hidden nest; On bush and shrub are balmy censers swinging, As Nature worships at divine behest. From bulb and seed, in dark mould fructifying, Ye rise triumphantly, as some day we Shall fall into the sleep that men call dying And waken unto immortality. What matter if ye live but for an hour? Ye did not bloom in vain, though ye must fade; Ye are the symbol of His love and power, The sweet sign-manual His hand hath made. —Ave Maria. A tyrant never tasteth of true friendship nor of perfect liberty. Better to be occasionally deceived than to be always distrustful. Enthusiasm generates energy as naturally as the sun gives forth heat. The burden of suffering seems a tombstone hung around us, while in reality it is only a weight necessary to keep down the diver while he is collecting pearls.