[The Prayer:] “O God, who by Thy servant didst here assemble Thy handmaids in Thy Holy Name, grant, we beseech Thee, that he be protected from all adversity, and be restored safe to us, Thy handmaids.”

If Heaven permit my enemies to destroy me, or if 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 bless.

     There Sabbath day to Sabbath day sheds on a ceaseless light,
     Eternal pleasure of the saints who keep that Sabbath bright;
     Nor shall the chant ineffable decline, nor ever cease,
     Which we with all the angels sing in that sweet realm of peace.