Is it the sound of the wandering breeze, Or the rustling of the gra.s.s, Or the stooping wing of the evening birds As home to their nests they pa.s.s?

No; 'tis a voice like one in dreams, Half solemn and half sad, Freed from the weariness of earth, Not yet with glory clad;

Full of the yearning tenderness Which nought but suffering gives; Too sad for angel-tones--too full Of rest for aught that lives.

They are the Voices of the Dead From the graves that lie around, And the Monk's heart swells within his breast, As he listens to the sound.

"Amen! Amen!" the answer comes Unto his muttered prayer; "Amen!" as though the brethren all In choir were standing there.

The living and departed ones On earth are joined again, And the bar that shuts them from his ken For a moment parts in twain.

Over the gulf that yawns beneath, Their echoed thanks he hears For the Ma.s.ses he has offered up, For his orisons and tears.

And as the strange responsory Mounts from the church-yard sod, Their mingled prayers and answers rise Unto the throne of G.o.d. [1]

[Footnote 1: There is a story recorded of St. Birstan, Bishop of Winchester, who died about the year of Christ 944, how he was wont every day to say Ma.s.s and Matins for the dead; and one evening, as he walked in the church-yard, reciting his said Matins, when he came to the _Requiescat in Pace_, the voices in the graves round about him made answer aloud, and said, "Amen, Amen!"--_From the "English Martyrology" for October 22_]

--_M. R., in "The Lamp," Oct. 31, 1863._

THE CONVENT CEMETERY.

REV. ABRAM J. RYAN.

[This is an extract from Father Ryan's poem, "Their Story Runneth Thus."]

And years and years, and weary years pa.s.sed on Into the past; one autumn afternoon, When flowers were in their agony of death, And winds sang "_De Profundis_" o'er them, And skies were sad with shadows, he did walk Where, in a resting-place as calm as sweet, The dead were lying down; the autumn sun Was half-way down the west--the hour was three, The holiest hour of all the twenty-four, For Jesus leaned His head on it, and died.

He walked alone amid the Virgins' graves, Where calm they slept--a convent stood near by, And from the solitary cells of nuns Unto the cells of death the way was short.

Low, simple stones and white watched o'er each grave, While in the hollows 'twixt them sweet flowers grew, Entwining grave with grave. He read the names Engraven on the stones, and "Rest in peace"

Was written 'neath them all, and o'er each name A cross was graven on the lowly stone.

He pa.s.sed each grave with reverential awe, As if he pa.s.sed an altar, where the Host Had left a memory of its sacrifice.

And o'er the buried virgin's virgin dust He walked as prayerfully as though he trod The holy floor of fair Loretto's shrine.

He pa.s.sed from grave to grave, and read the names Of those whose own pure lips had changed the names By which this world had known them into names Of sacrifice known only to their G.o.d; Veiling their faces they had veiled their names.

The very ones who played with them as girls, Had they pa.s.sed there, would know no more than he, Or any stranger, where their playmates slept.

And then he wondered all about their lives, their hearts, Their thoughts, their feelings, and their dreams, Their joys and sorrows, and their smiles and tears.

He wondered at the stories that were hid Forever down within those simple graves.

ONE HOUR AFTER DEATH.

ELIZA ALLEN STARR.

Oh! I could envy thee thy solemn sleep, Thy sealed lid, thy rosary-folding palm, Thy brow, scarce cold, whose wasted outlines keep The "_Bona Mors_" sublime, unfathomed calm.

I sigh to wear myself that burial robe Anointed hands have blessed with pious care: What nuptial garb on all this mortal globe Could with thy habit's peaceful brown compare?

Beneath its hallowed folds thy feeble dust Shall rest serenely through the night of time; Unharmed by worm, or damp, or century's rust, But, fresh as youth, shall greet th' eternal prime

Of that clear morn, before whose faintest ray Earth's bliss will pale, a taper's flickering gleam; I see it break! the pure, celestial day, And stars of mortal hope already dim.

"_In pace_" Lord, oh! let her sweetly rest In Paradise, this very day with Thee: Her faithful lips her dying Lord confessed, Then let her soul Thy risen glory see!

A PRAYER FOR THE DEAD.

T. D. MCGEE.

Let us pray for the dead!

For sister and mother, Father and brother, For clansman and fosterer, And all who have loved us here; For pastors, for neighbors, At rest from their labors; Let us pray for our own beloved dead!

That their souls may be swiftly sped Through the valley of purgatorial fire, To a heavenly home by the gate called Desire!

I see them cleave the awful air, Their dun wings fringed with flame; They hear, they hear our helping prayer, They call on Jesu's name.

Let us pray for the dead!

For our foes who have died, May they be justified!

For the stranger whose eyes Closed on cold alien skies; For the sailors who perished By the frail arts they cherished; Let us pray for the unknown dead.

Father in heaven, to Thee we turn, Transfer their debt to us; Oh! bid their souls no longer burn In mediate anguish thus.

Let us pray for the soldiers, On whatever side slain; Whose white bones on the plain Lay unclaimed and unfathered, By the vortex-wind gathered, Let us pray for the valiant dead.

Oh! pity the soldier, Kind Father in heaven, Whose body doth moulder Where his soul fled self-shriven.

We have prayed for the dead; All the faithful departed, Who to Christ were true-hearted; And our prayers shall be heard, For so promised the Lord; And their spirits shall go Forth from limbo-like woe-- And joyfully swift the justified dead Shall feel their unbound pinions sped, Through the valley of purgatorial fire, To their heavenly home by the gate called Desire,

By the gate called Desire, In clouds they've ascended-- O Saints, pray for us, Now your sorrows are ended!

THE DE PROFUNDIS BELL. [1]

[Footnote 1: Among the many beautiful and pious customs of Catholic countries, none appeals with more tender earnestness to the pitying heart than that of the _De Profundis_ bell. While the shades of night are gathering over the earth, a solemn, dirge like tolling resounds from the lofty church towers. Instantly every knee is bent, and countless voices, in city and hamlet, from castle and cottage, repeat, with heartfelt earnestness, the beautiful psalm, "_De Profundis_," or, "Out of the depths," etc., for the souls of the faithful departed. Thus is ill.u.s.trated, in a most touching manner, the blessed doctrine of the Communion of Saints. Thus does the Church Militant clasp, each day anew, the holy tie which binds her to the suffering Church of Purgation.

The compa.s.sionate heart of the Christian is stirred to its inmost depths by the plaintive call of that warning bell; and as, in the holy hush of nightfall, he obeys its tender appeal, how fully does he realize that "it is a holy and wholesome thought to pray for the dead."]

HARRIET M. SKIDMORE.

The day was dead; from purple summits faded Its last resplendent ray, And softly slept the wearied earth, o'ershaded By twilight's dreamy gray; Then flowed deep sound-waves o'er silence holy Of nature's calm repose,

As from its lofty dome, outpealing slowly Through the still gloaming, rose The deep and dirge-like swell Of _De Profundis_ bell.

To heedful hearts each solemn cadence falling Through twilight's misty veil, An echo seemed of spirit-voices calling With sad, beseeching wail; And thus outspake the mournful intonation: "Plead for us, brethren, plead!"

From the drear depths of woe and desolation Our cry of bitter need Floats upward in the swell Of _De Profundis_ bell.

Then bowed each knee, the plaintive summons heeding, And rose the blended sigh.

As incense-breath of fond, united pleading E'en to the throne on high: "Hear, Lord, the cry of fervent supplication Earth's children lift to Thee; And from the depths of long and dread purgation Thy faithful captives free, Ere dies on earth the swell Of _De Profundis_ bell.

"If, in Thy sight, scarce e'en the perfect whiteness Of seraph-robe is pure, Shall mortals brave Thine eye's eternal brightness?

Shall man its search endure?

Ah! trusting hope may meet the dazzling splendor Of those celestial rays, For with Thee, Lord, is pardon sweet and tender, When contrite sorrow prays.

Ay, Thou wilt lead, from desert-waste of sadness, Thine Israel's chosen band; And Miriam's song of pure, triumphant gladness Shall, in Thy promised land, Succeed the dirge-like swell Of _De Profundis_ bell."