Mute as statue, on each knoll Stood a thin, transparent soul, While the fresh breeze stole From its long night's rest, Till it bore upon its tongue, Like a s.n.a.t.c.h of sacred song, All the peopled graves among, _Ite Missa est!_

Then a cry, as Angels raise In an ecstasy of praise, When the G.o.dhead's glowing rays To their eager sight is given, Shook the consecrated ground, And the souls it lost were found From their venial sins unbound, In the happy fields of heaven!

Where the tombstones gray and browned, And the broken roods around, And the vespers' solemn sound, Told an old church near; I sat me in the eve, And I let my fancy weave Such a vision as I leave With a frail pen here.

ELEVENTH MONTH, NOVEMBER: THE HOLY SOULS.

COMMEMORATION OF ALL SOULS.

HARRIET M. SKIDMORE.

O faithful church! O tender mother-heart, That, 'neath the shelter of thy deathless love, Shieldest the blood-bought charge thy Master gave; Laving the calm, unfurrowed infant brow With the pure wealth of Heaven's cleansing stream; Breathing above the sinner's grief-bowed head The mystic words that loose the demon-spell, And bid the leprous soul be clean again; Decking the upper chamber of the heart For the blest banquet of the Lord of love; Binding upon the youthful warrior's breast The buckler bright, the sacred shield of strength, The fair, celestial gift of Pentecost, Borne on the pinions of the holy Dove!

And when, at last, life's sunset hour is near, And the worn pilgrim-feet stand trembling on The shadowy borders of the death-dark vale, At thy command the priestly hand bestows The potent unction in the saving Name, And gives unto the parched and pallid lip The blest Viatic.u.m, the Bread of Life, As staff and stay for that drear pilgrimage!

Thy prayers ascend, with magic incense-breath, From the lone couch, where, fainting by the way, The frail companion of the deathless soul Parteth in pain from its immortal guest.

And when, at last, the golden chain is loosed, And through the shadows of that mystic vale The ransomed captive floateth swiftly forth, In solemn tones thy _De Profundis_ rings O'er all the realms of vast eternity; Thy tender litanies call gently down The angel-guides, the white-robed band of Saints, To lead the wanderer to "the great White Throne,"

To plead, with Heaven's own pitying tenderness, For life and mercy at the judgment-seat.

The account is given, the saving sentence breathed, Yet He who said that nought by sin defiled Can take at once its blessed place amid The spotless legion of His shining Saints, Will find, upon the white baptismal robe, Full many a blemish; stains too lightly held, Half-cleansed by an imperfect sorrow's flood.

"The Christian shall be saved, yet as by fire;"

So, to the pain-fraught, purifying flame The robe is given, till every blighting spot Hath faded from its primal purity; Still, faithful Church, thy blest Communion binds Each suffering child unto thy mother's heart.

Full well thou know'st the wondrous power of prayer-- That 'tis a holy and a wholesome thought To plead for those who in the drear abode Of penance linger, "that they may be loosed From all their sins;" that on each spotless brow Love's shining hand may place the starry crown.

And so the holy Sacrifice ascends, A sweet oblation for that wailing band Thy regal form in mourning hues is draped, Thy pleading _Miserere_ ceaseth not Till, at its blest entreaty, Love descends, As erst, from His rent tomb, to Limbo's realm, And leads again the freed, exultant throng, Within the gleaming gates of gold and pearl, To bask in fadeless splendor, where the flow Of the "still waters" by the "pastures green"

Faints not, nor slackens, through the endless years.

O Christians, brethren by that holy tie That links the living with the ransomed dead!

Children of one fond mother are ye all, White-robed in heaven, militant on earth, And sufferers 'mid the purifying flame.

O ye who tread the highway of our world, Join now your voices with that mother's sigh!

And while the mournful autumn wind laments, And sad November's ceaseless tear-drops fall Upon "the Silent City's" marble roofs, O'er lonely graves amid the pathless wild, Or where the wayworn pilgrim sank to rest In some lone cavern by the crested sea-- List to the pleading wail that e'er ascends From the dark land of suffering and woe: "Our footsteps trod your fair, sun-lighted paths, Our voices mingled in your joyous songs, Our tears were blended in one common grief; Perchance our erring hearts' excessive love For you, the worshipped idols of our lives, Hath been the blemish on our bridal robes.

Plead for us, then, and let your potent prayer Unlock the golden gates, that we who beat Our eager wings against these prison bars, May wing our flight to endless liberty!"

THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD.

FATHER FABER

[This poem scarcely comes within the scope of the present work, yet it is, by its nature, so closely connected therewith, and is, moreover, so exquisitely tender and pathetic, so beautiful in its mournful simplicity, that I decided on giving it a place amongst these funereal fragments.]

Oh! it is sweet to think Of those that are departed, While murmured Aves sink To silence tender-hearted-- While tears that have no pain Are tranquilly distilling, And the dead live again In hearts that love is filling.

Yet not as in the days Of earthly ties we love them; For they are touched with rays From light that is above them; Another sweetness shines Around their well-known features; G.o.d with His glory signs His dearly-ransomed creatures.

Yes, they are more our own, Since now they are G.o.d's only; And each one that has gone Has left one heart less lonely.

He mourns not seasons fled, Who now in Him possesses Treasures of many dead In their dear Lord's caresses.

Dear dead! they have become Like guardian angels to us; And distant Heaven like home, Through them begins to woo us; Love that was earthly, wings Its flight to holier places; The dead are sacred things That multiply our graces.

They whom we loved on earth Attract us now to Heaven; Who shared our grief and mirth Back to us now are given.

They move with noiseless foot Gravely and sweetly round us, And their soft touch hath cut Full many a chain that bound us.

O dearest dead! to Heaven With grudging sighs we gave you; To Him--be doubts forgiven!

Who took you there to save you:-- Now get us grace to love Your memories yet more kindly, Pine for our homes above And trust to G.o.d more blindly.

THE HOLY SOULS.

WRITTEN FOR MUSIC BY THE AUTHOR OF "CHRISTIAN SCHOOLS AND SCHOLARS."

O Mary, help of sorrowing hearts, Look down with pitying eye Where souls the spouses of thy Son, In fiery torments lie; Far from the presence of their Lord The purging debt they pay, In prisons through whose gloomy shades There shines no cheering ray.

The fire of love is in their hearts, Its flame burns fierce and keen; They languish for His Blessed Face, For one brief moment seen; Prisoners of hope, their joy is there To wait His Holy Will, And, patient in the cleansing flames, Their penance to fulfil.

But dark the gloom where smile of thine, Sweet Mother, may not fall, Oh, hear us, when for these dear souls Thy loving aid we call!

Thou art the star whose gentle beam Sheds joy upon the night, Oh, let its shining pierce their gloom And give them peace and light.

The sprinkling of the Precious Blood From thy dear hand must come, Quench with its drops their cruel flames, And call them to their home; Freed from their pains, and safe with thee, In Jesu's presence blest, Oh, may the dead in Christ receive Eternal light and rest!

THE PALMER'S ROSARY.

ELIZA ALLEN STARR.

No coral beads on costly chain of gold The Palmer's pious lips at Vespers told; No guards of art could Pilgrim's favor win, Who only craved release from earth and sin.

He from the Holy Land his rosary brought; From sacred olive wood each bead was wrought, Whose grain was nurtured, ages long ago, By blood the Saviour sweated in His woe; Then on the Holy Sepulchre was laid This crown of roses from His pa.s.sion made; The Sepulchre from which the Lord of all Arose from death's dark bed and icy thrall.

Yet not complete that wreath of joy and pain, Which for the dead must sweet indulgence gain; The pendant cross, on which with guileless art, Some hand had graved what touches every heart, The image of the Lamb for sinners slain, From Bethlehem's crib, now shrine, his prayers obtain; And tears and kisses tell the holy tale Of pilgrim love and penitential wail.

The love, the tears, which fed his pious flame, May well be thine, my heart, in very same; Since bead and cross, by Palmer prized so well, At vesper-hour, these fingers softly tell, And press, through them, each dear and sacred spot Where G.o.d once walked, "yet men received Him not."

And still, with pious Palmer gray, of yore, Thy lips can kiss the ground He wet with gore, Still at the Sepulchre with her delay, Who found Him risen ere the break of day; And hover round the crib with meek delight Where shepherds hasted from their flocks by night, To there adore Him whom a Virgin blessed, Bore in her arms and nourished at her breast.

My Rosary dear! my Bethlehem Cross so fair!

No rose, no lily can with thee compare; No gems, no gold, no art, or quaint device Could be my precious Rosary's priceless price; For Heaven's eternal joys at holier speed, I trust to win through every sacred bead; And still for suffering souls obtain release From cleansing fires to everlasting peace.

A LYKE WAKE DIRGE.

[From Sir Walter Scott's "Minstrelsy of the Border," we take this fragment. The dirge to which the eminent author alludes in a before- quoted extract from his work, and which he erroneously styles "a charm," is here given in full. The reader will observe that it partakes not the least of the nature of a charm. It would seem to have some a.n.a.logy with the "Keen," or Wail of the Irish peasantry.]

This ae nighte, this ae nighte, Every nighte and alle; Fire and sleet, and candle lighte, And Christe receive thye saule.

When thou from hence away are paste, Every nighte and alle; To Whinny-muir thou comest at laste; And Christe receive thye saule.

If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon; Every nighte and alle; Sit thee down and put them on; And Christe receive thye saule.

If hosen and shoon thou ne'er gavest nane, Every nighte and alle, The whinnes shall p.r.i.c.ke thee to the bare bane; And Christe receive thye saule.

From Whinny-muir, when thou mayest pa.s.se, Every nighte and alle; To Brig o' Dread thou comest at laste; And Christe receive thye saule.

From Brig o' Dread when thou mayest pa.s.se, Every nighte and alle; To Purgatory fire thou comest at laste; And Christe receive thye saule.

If ever thou gavest meat or drink, Every nighte and alle, The fire shall never make thee shrinke; And Christe receive thye saule.