It was heard on the sunny banks of the Rhine, at Antwerp and Cologne, in Oxford, in Pavia, and in Paris.

And still the old echo is breathing its holy prayer.

By the priest, who toils in cold and storm to the "station" on the mountain side, far from his humble home.

By the confessor, who spends hour after hour, in the heat of summer and the cold of winter, absolving the penitent children of Patrick.

By the monk in his cloister.