_From the French of Theodore Nisard_

A. T. SADLIER

The bell is tolling for the dead, Christians, hasten we to prayer, Our brothers suffer there, Consumed in struggles vain.

Have pity, have pity on them, In torturing flames immersed, The stains their souls aspersed Retain them far from heav'n.

Since G.o.d has giv'n us power, Oh, let us their woes relieve; Their hope do not deceive, Our protectors they will be.

For these suff'ring ones we pray, Lord Jesus, Victim blest, Take them from pain to rest, Thy children, too, are they.

[As the translation is a very rude one, we add the French original, which, particularly when set to music, is full of a deep solemnity and pathos.]

CHANT FUNeBRE.

NISARD

La cloche tinte pour les morts Chretiens, mettons nous en prieres!

Ceux qi gemissent sont des freres, Se consumant en vains efforts.

Pitie pour eux! Pitie pour eux!

Ils tourbillonnent dans la flamme; Les taches qui souillent leur ames, Les tiennent captifs loin des cieux.

Mettons un terme a leur douleurs, Dieu nous en donne la puissance; Ne trompons point leur esperance, Puis ils seront nos protecteurs.

Disons pour nos fieres souffrants: Sauveur Jesus, Sainte Victime, Tirez nos freres de l'abime, Car, eux aussi, sont vos enfants.

REQUIESCAT IN PACE.

HARRIET M. SKIDMORE

O Father, give them rest-- Thy faithful ones, whose day of toil is o'er,

Whose weary feet shall wander never more O'er earth's unquiet breast!

The battle-strife was long; Yet, girt with grace, and guided by Thy light, They faltered not till triumph closed the fight, Till pealed the victor's song.

Though drear the desert path, With cruel thorns and flinty fragments strewn, Where fiercely swept, amid the glare of noon.

The plague-wind's biting wrath.

Still onward pressed their feet; For patience soothed with sweet celestial balm, And, from the rocks, hope called her founts to calm The Simoom's venom-heat.

Their march hath reached its close, Its toils are o'er, its Red Sea safely pa.s.sed; And pilgrim feet have cast aside at last Earth's sandal-shoon of woes.

Thou blissful promised land!

One rapturous glimpse of matchless glory caught, One priceless vision, with thy beauty fraught, Hath blessed that way-worn band.

And to thy smiling sh.o.r.e Their ceaseless messengers of longing went, And blooms of bliss and fruitage of content, Returning, gladly bore.

Yet sadly still they wait; For, past idolatries to G.o.ds of clay, And past rebellions 'gainst the Master's sway, Have barred the golden gate.

The magic voice of prayer, The saving rite, the sacrifice of love, The human tear, the sigh of Saints above, Blent in one off'ring fair--

These, these alone, can win The boon they crave: glad entrance into rest, The fadeless crown, the garment of the blest, Washed pure from stain of sin.

Hear, then, our eager cry.

O G.o.d of mercy! bid their anguish cease; To prisoned souls, ah! bring the glad release, And hush the mourner's sigh.

Mother of pitying love!

On sorrow's flood thy tender glances bend, And o'er its dark and dreadful torrent send The olive-bearing dove.

Thy potent prayer shall be An arch of peace, a radiant promise-bow, To span the gulf, and shed its cheering glow O'er the dread penance-sea.

And on its pathway blest The ransomed throng, in garments washed and white, May safely pa.s.s to love's fair realm of light, To heaven's perfect rest.

THE FEAST OF ALL SOULS IS THE COUNTRY.

_From the French of Fontanes_. [1]

[Footnote 1: Louis, Marquis de Fontanes, Peer of France, and Member of the French Academy.]

ANNA T. SADLIER

E'en now doth Sagittarius from on high, Outstretch his bow, and ravage all the earth, The hills, and meadows where of flowers the dearth Already felt, like some vast ruins lie.

The bleak November counts its primal day, While I, a witness of the year's decline, Glad of my rest, within the fields recline.

No poet heart this beauty can gainsay, No feeling mind these autumn pictures scorn, But knows how their monotonous charms adorn.

Oh, with what joy does dreamy sorrow stray At eve, slow pacing, the dun-colored vale; He seeks the yellow woods, and hears the tale Of winds that strip them of their lonely leaves; For this low murmur all my sense deceives.

In rustling forests do I seem to hear Those voices long since still, to me most dear.

In leaves grown sere they speak unto my heart.

This season round the coffin-lid we press, Religion wears herself a mourning dress, More grand she seems, while her diviner part At sight of this, a world in ruins, grows.

To-day a pious usage she has taught, Her voice opens vaults wherein our fathers dwell.

Alas, my memory doth keep that thought.

The dawn appeareth, and the swaying bell Mingles its mournful sound with whistling winds, The Feast of Death proclaiming to the air.

Men, women, children, to the Church repair, Where one, with speech and with example binds These happy tribes, maintaining all in peace.

He follows them, the first apostles, near, Like them the pastor's holy name makes dear.

"With hymns of joy," said he, "but yesterday We celebrated the triumphant dead Who conquer'd heav'n by burning zeal, faith-fed.

For plaintive shades, whom sorrow makes his prey We weep to-day, our mourning is their bliss, All potent prayer is privileged in this, Souls purified from sin by transient pain It frees; we'll visit their most calm domain.

Man seeks it, and descends there every hour.

But dry our tears, for now celestial rays The grave's dim region swift shall penetrate; Yea, all its dwellers in their primal state Shall wake, behold the light in mute amaze.

Ah, might I to that world my flight then wing In triumph to my G.o.d, my flock recovered bring."

So saying, offered he the holy rite, With arms extended praying G.o.d to spare, The while adoring knelt he humbly there.

That people prostrate! oh, most solemn sight That church, its porticoes with moss o'ergrown, The ancient walls, dim light and Gothic panes, In its antiquity the brazen lamp A symbol of eternity doth stamp.

A lasting sun. G.o.d's majesty down sent, Vows, tears and incense from the altars rise, Young beauties praying 'neath their mothers' eyes, Do soften by their voices innocent, The touching pomp religion there reveals; The organ hush'd, the sacred silence round, All, all uplifts, enn.o.bles and inspires; Man feels himself transported where the choirs Of seraphim with harps of gold entone Low at Jehovah's feet their endless song.

Then G.o.d doth make His awful presence known, Hides from the wise, to loving hearts is shown: He seeks less to be proved than to be felt. [1]