THE LEGEND OF GEOFFROID D'IDEN.

It is related by Peter the Venerable, Abbot of Cluny, that, in the first half of the twelfth century, the Lord Humbert, son of Guichard, Count de Beaujeu, in the Maconnais, having made war on some other neighboring lords, Geoffroid d'Iden, one of his vassals, received in the fight a wound which instantly killed him. Two months after his death, Geoffroid appeared to Milon d'Ansa, who knew him well; he begged him to tell Humbert de Beaujeu, in whose service he had lost his life, that he was in Purgatory, for having aided him in an unjust war and not having expiated his sins by penance, before his unlooked-for death; that he besought him, therefore, most urgently, to have compassion on him, and also on his own father, Guichard, who, although he had led a religious life at Cluny in his latter days, had not entirely satisfied the justice of God for his past sins, and especially for a portion of his wealth, which, as his children knew, was ill gained; that, in consequence thereof, he prayed him to have the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass offered for him and for his father, to distribute alms to the poor, and to recommend both sufferers to the prayers of good people, in order to shorten their time of penance. "Tell him," added the apparition, "that if he hear thee not, I must go myself to announce to him that which I have now told to thee."

The lof Ansa (now Anse) faithfully discharged the task imposed upon him. Humbert was frightened; but he neither had prayers nor Masses offered up, made no reparation, and distributed no alms.

Nevertheless, fearing lest Guichard his father or Geoffroid d'Iden might come to disturb him, he no longer dared to remain alone, especially by night; and he always had some of his people around him, making them sleep in his chamber.

One morning, as he was still in bed, but awake, he saw appear before him Geoffroid d'Iden, armed as on the day of the battle. Showing him the mortal wound which he had received, and which appeared still fresh, he warmly reproached him for the little pity he had for himself and for his father, who was groaning in torment; and he added: "Take care lest God may treat thee in His rigor, and refuse thee the mercy thou dost not grant to us; and for thee, give up thy purpose of going to the war with Amadeus. If thou goest thither, thou shalt lose thy life and thy possessions."

At that moment, Richard de Marsay, the Count's squire, entered, coming from Mass; the, spirit disappeared, and thenceforward Humbert de Beaujeu went seriously to work to relieve his father and his vassal, after which he made the journey to Jerusalem to expiate his own sins.

THE QUEEN OF PURGATORY.

BY FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER, D. D.

Oh! turn to Jesus, Mother! turn, And call Him by His tenderest names; Pray for the Holy Souls that burn This hour amid the cleansing flames.

Ah! they have fought a gallant fight; In death's cold arms they persevered; And, after life's uncheery night, The harbor of their rest is neared.

In pains beyond all earthly pains Fav'rites of Jesus, there they lie, Letting the fire wear out their stains, And worshipping God's purity.

Spouses of Christ they are, for He Was wedded to them by His blood; And angels o'er their destiny In wondering adoration brood.

They are the children of thy tears; Then hasten, Mother! to their aid; In pity think each hour appears An age while glory is delayed!

See, how they bound amid their fires, While pain and love their spirits fill; Then, with self-crucified desires, Utter sweet murmurs, and lie still.

Ah me! the love of Jesus yearns O'er that abyss of sacred pain; And, as He looks, His bosom burns With Calvary's dear thirst again.

O Mary! let thy Son no more His lingering spouses thus expect; God's children to their God restore, And to the Spirit His elect.

Pray then, as thou hast ever prayed; Angels and Souls all look to thee; God waits thy prayers, for He hath made Those prayers His law of charity.

THE DEAD PRIEST BEFORE THE ALTAR.

REV. A. J. RYAN.

Who will watch o'er the dead young priest, People and priests and all? No, no, no, 'tis his spirit's feast, When the evening shadows fall. Let him rest alone—unwatched, alone, Just beneath the altar's light, The holy Hosts on their humble throne Will watch him through the night.

The doors were closed—he was still and fair, What sound moved up the aisles? The dead priests come with soundless prayer, Their faces wearing smiles. And this was the soundless hymn they sung: "We watch o'er you to-night; Your life was beautiful, fair and young, Not a cloud upon its light. To-morrow—to-morrow you will rest With the virgin priests whom Christ has blest."

Kyrie Eleison! the stricken crowd Bowed down their heads in tears O'er the sweet young priest in his vestment shroud. Ah! the happy, happy years! They are dead and gone, and the Requiem Mass Went slowly, mournfully on, The Pontiff's singing was all a wail, The altars cried and the people wept, The fairest flower in the Church's vale Ah me! how soon we pass! In the vase of his coffin slept. —From In Memoriam.

MEMORIALS OF THE BEAD.

R. R. MADDEN. [1]

[Footnote 1: Author of "Lives and Times of United Irishmen."]

'Tis not alone in "hallowed ground," At every step we tread Midst tombs and sepulchres, are found Memorials of the dead.

'Tis not in sacred shrines alone, Or trophies proudly spread On old cathedral walls are shown Memorials of the dead.

Emblems of Fame surmounting death, Of war and carnage dread, They were not, in the "Times of Faith," Memorials of the dead.

From marble bust and pictured traits The living looks recede, They fade away: so frail are these Memorials of the dead.

On mural slabs, names loved of yore Can now be scarcely read; A few brief years have left no more Memorials of the dead.

Save those which pass from sire to son, Traditions that are bred In the heart's core, and make their own Memorials of the dead.

A CHILD'S REQUIESCAT IN PACE.

ELIZA ALLEN STARR.

With the gray dawn's faintest break, Mother, faithfully I wake, Whispering softly for thy sake Requiescat in pace!

When the sun's broad disk at height Floods the busy world with light, Breathes my soul with sighs contrite, Requiescat in pace!

When the twilight shadows lone Wrap the home once, once thine own, Sobs my heart with broken moan, Requiescat in pace!

Night, so solemn, grand, and still, Trances forest, meadow, rill; Hush, fond heart, adore His will, Requiescat in pace!

THE SOLITARY SOUL.

I died; but my soul did not wing its flight straight to the heaven- nest, and there repose in the bosom of Him who made it, as the minister who was with me said it would. Good old man! He had toiled among us, preaching baptizing, marrying, and burrying, until his hair had turned from nut-brown to frost-white; and he told me, as I lay dying, that the victory of the Cross was the only passport I needed to the joys of eternity; that a life like mine would meet its immediate reward. And it did; but, O my God! not as he had thought, and I had believed.

As he prayed, earth's sights and sounds faded from me, and the strange, new life began. The wrench of agony with which soul and body parted left me breathless; and my spirit, like a lost child, turned frightened eyes towards home.

I stood in a dim, wind-swept space. No gates of pearl or walls of jacinth met my gaze; no streaming glory smote my eyes; no voice bade me enter and put on the wedding garment. Hosts of pale shapes circled by, but no one saw me. All had their faces uplifted, and their hands—such patient, pathetic hands—were clasped on their hearts; and the air was heavy with the whisper, "Christ! Christ!" that came unceasingly from their lips.

Above us, the clouds drifted and turned; about us, the horizon was blotted out; mist and grayness were everywhere. A voiceless wind swept by; and as I gazed, sore dismayed and saddened, a rent opened in the driving mass, and I saw a man standing with arms upraised. He was strangely vestured; silver and gold gleamed in his raiment, and a large cross was outlined upon his back. He held in his hands a chalice of gold, in which sparkled something too liquid for fire, too softly brilliant for water or wine.

As this sight broke on our vision, two figures near me uttered a cry, whose rapturous sweetness filled space with melody; and, like the up- springing lark, borne aloft by the beauty of their song, they vanished; and those about me bowed their heads, and ceased their moan for a moment.

"What is it?" I cried. "Who is the man? What was it he held in his hand?"

But there was none to answer me, and I drove along before the wind with the rest, helpless, bewildered.

How long this lasted I do not know; for there was neither night nor day in the sad place; and a fire of longing burnt in my breast, so keen, so strong, that all other sensation was swallowed up.

And then, too, my grief! There were many deeds of my life to which I had given but casual regret. When the minister would counsel us to confess our sins to God, I had knelt in the church and gone through the form; but here, where the height and depth and breadth of God's perfection dawned upon me, and grew hourly clearer, they seemed to rend my heart, and to far outweigh any little good I might have done. Oh! why did no one ever preach the justice of God to me, and the necessity of personal atonement! Why had they only taught me, "Believe, and you shall be saved?"

Time by time, the shapes about me rose and vanished with the same cry as the two I saw liberated in my first hour; and sometimes—like an echo—the sound of human voices would go through space—some choked with tears, some low with sadness, some glad with hope.

"Eternal rest grant to them, O Lord!"

"And let perpetual light shine upon them!"

"May they rest in peace!"

And the "Amen" tolled like a silver bell, and I would feel a respite.

But no one called me by name, no one prayed for my freedom. My mother's voice, my sister's dream, my father's belief—all were that I was happy before the face of God. And friends forgot me, except in their pleasures.

At seasons, through the mist would loom an altar, at which a man, in black robes embroidered with silver, bowed and bent. The chalice, with its always wonderful contents, would be raised, and a disc, in whose circle of whiteness I saw Christ crucified. From the thorn-wounds, the Hands, the Feet, the Side, shot rays of dazzling brightness; and my frozen soul, my tear-chilled eyes, were warmed and gladdened; for the man who held this wondrous image would himself sigh: "For all the dead, sweet Lord!" And to me, even me, would come hope and peace.

But, oh! the agony, oh! the desolateness, to be cut off from the sweet guerdon of immediate release! Oh! the pain of expiating every fault, measure for measure! Oh, the grief of knowing that my own deeds were the chains of my captivity, and my unfulfilled duties the barriers that withheld me from beholding the Beatific Vision!

Sometimes a gracious face would gleam through the mist—a face so tender, so human, so full of love, that I yearned to hear it speak to me, to have those radiant eyes turned on me. My companions called her "Mary!" and I knew it was the Virgin of Nazareth. Often she would call them by name, and say: "My child, my Son bids thee come home."

Why had I never known this gentle Mother! Why could I not catch her mantle, and clinging to it, pass from waiting to fulfilment!

Once when I had grown grief-bowed with waiting, worn with longing, I saw again the vision of the Church. At a long railing knelt many young girls, and they received at the hands of the priest what I had learned to discern as the Body of the Lord. One—God bless her tender heart!— whispered as she knelt: "O dearest Lord, I offer to Thee this Holy Communion for the soul that has no one to pray for her."

And through the grayness rang at last my name, and straight to heaven I went, ransomed by that mighty price, freed by prayer from prison.

O you who live, who have voices and hearts, for the sake of Christ and His Holy Mother; by the love you bear your living, and the grief you give your dead, pray for those whose friends do not know how to help them; for the suddenly killed; for the executed criminal; and for those who, having suffered long in Purgatory, need one more prayer to set them free.—Ave Maria, November 10, 1883.

THE STORY OF THE FAITHFUL SOUL.

Founded on an old French Legend.

ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.

The fettered spirits linger In purgatorial pain, With penal fires effacing Their last faint earthly stain, Which Life's imperfect sorrow Had tried to cleanse in vain.

Yet, on each feast of Mary Their sorrow finds release, For the great Archangel Michael Comes down and bids it cease; And the name of these brief respites Is called "Our Lady's Peace."

Yet once—so runs the legend— When the Archangel came, And all these holy spirits Rejoiced at Mary's name, One voice alone was wailing, Still wailing on the same.

And though a great Te Deum The happy echoes woke, I This one discordant wailing Through the sweet voices broke: So when St. Michael questioned, Thus the poor spirit spoke:—

I am not cold or thankless, Although I still complain; I prize Our Lady's blessing, Although it comes in vain To still my bitter anguish, Or quench my ceaseless pain.

"On earth a heart that loved me Still lives and mourns me there, And the shadow of his anguish Is more than I can bear; All the torment that I suffer Is the thought of his despair.

"The evening of my bridal Death took my Life away; Not all Love's passionate pleading Could gain an hour's delay. And he I left has suffered A whole year since that day.

"If I could only see him— If I could only go And speak one word of comfort And solace—then, I know He would endure with patience, And strive against his woe."

Thus the Archangel answered: "Your time of pain is brief, And soon the peace of Heaven Will give you full relief; Yet if his earthly comfort So much outweighs your grief,

"Then, through a special mercy, I offer you this grace— You may seek him who mourns you And look upon his face, And speak to him of Comfort, For one short minute's space.

"But when that time is ended, Return here and remain A thousand years in torment, A thousand years in pain; Thus dearly must you purchase The comfort he will gain."

The lime-trees shade at evening Is spreading broad and wide; Beneath their fragrant arches Pace slowly, side by side, In low and tender converse, A Bridegroom and his Bride.

The night is calm and stilly, No other sound is there Except their happy voices:— What is that cold bleak air That passes through the lime-trees, And stirs the Bridegroom's hair?

While one low cry of anguish, Like the last dying wail Of some dumb, hunted creature, Is borne upon the gale— Why dogs the Bridegroom shudder

And turn so deathly pale?

Near Purgatory's entrance The radiant Angels wait; It was the great St. Michael Who closed that gloomy gate, When the poor wandering spirit Came back to meet her fate.

"Pass on," thus spoke the Angel: "Heaven's joy is deep and vast; Pass on, pass on, poor spirit, For Heaven is yours at last; In that one minute's anguish, Your thousand years have passed."

GENERADE, THE FRIEND OF ST. AUGUSTINE.

J. COLLIN DE PLANCY.

ST. AUGUSTINE reckoned among his friends the physician Generade, highly honored in Carthage, where his learning and skill were much esteemed. But by one of those misfortunes of which there are, unhappily, but too many examples, while studying the admirable mechanism of the human body, he had come to believe matter capable of the works of intelligence which raise man so far above other created beings. He was, therefore, a materialist; and St. Augustine praying for him, earnestly besought God to enlighten that deluded mind.

One night while he slept, this doctor, who believed, as some do still, that "when one is dead, all is dead"—we quote their own language—saw in his dreams a young man, who said to him: "Follow me." He did so, and was conducted to a city, wherein he heard, on the right, unknown melodies, which filled him with admiration. What he heard on the left he never remembered. But on awaking he concluded, from this vision, that there was, somewhere, something else besides this world.

Another night he likewise beheld in sleep the same young man, who said to him:

"Knowest thou me?"

"Very well," answered Generade.

"And wherefore knowest thou me?"

"Because of the journey we made together when you showed me the city of harmony."

"Was it in a dream, or awake, that you saw and heard what struck you then?"

"It was in a dream."

"Where is your body now?"

"In my bed."

"Knowest thou well that thou now seest nothing with the eyes of the body?"

"I know it."

"With what eyes, then, dost thou see me?"

As the physician hesitated, and could not answer, the young man said to him:

"Even as thou seest and hearest me, now that thine eyes are closed and thy senses benumbed, so, after thy death, thou shalt live, thou shalt see, thou shalt hear—but with the organs of the soul. Doubt, then, no more!"

ST. THOMAS AQUINAS AND FRIAR ROMANUS.

WE are about to treat of facts concerning which our fathers never had any hesitation, because they had faith. Nowadays, the truths which are above the material sight have been so roughly handled that they are much diminished for us. And if the goodness of God had not allowed some rays of the mysteries which He reserves for Himself to escape, if some gleams of magnetism and the world of spirits occupying the air around us had not a little embarrassed those of our literati who make a merit of not believing, we would hardly dare, in spite of the grave authorities on which they rest, to represent here some apparitions of souls departed from this world. We shall venture to do so, nevertheless.

One day, when St. Thomas Aquinas was praying in the Church of the Friars, Preachers, at Naples, the pious friar Romanus, whom he had left in Paris, where he replaced him in the chair of Theology, suddenly appeared beside him. Thomas, seeing him, said:

"I am glad of thine arrival. But how long hast thou been here?"

Romanus answered: "I am now out of this world. Nevertheless, I am permitted to come to thee, because of thy merit."

The Saint, alarmed at this reply, after a moment's recollection, said to the apparition: "I adjure thee, by Our Lord Jesus Christ, tell me simply if my works are pleasing to God!"

Romanus replied: "Persevere in the way in which thou art, and believe that what thou doest is agreeable unto God."

Thomas then asked him in what state he found himself.

"I enjoy eternal life," answered Romanus. "Nevertheless, for having carelessly executed one clause of a will which the Bishop of Paris gave me in charge, I underwent for fifteen days the pains of Purgatory."

St. Thomas again said: "You remind me that we often discussed the question whether the knowledge acquired in this life remain in the soul after death. I pray you give me the solution thereof."

Romanus made answer: "Ask me not that. As for me, I am content with seeing my God."

"Seest thou him face to face?" went on Thomas.

"Just as we have been taught," replied Romanus, "and as I see thee."

With these words he left St. Thomas greatly consoled.

THE KEY THAT NEVER TURNS.

ELEANOR C. DONNELLY.

"In Purgatory, dear," I said to-day, Unto my pet, "the fire burns and burns, Until each ugly stain is burned away—And then an Angel turns A great, bright key, and forth the glad soul springs Into the presence of the King of kings."

"But in that other prison?" "Sweetest love! The same fierce fire burns and burns, but thence None e'er escapes." The blue eyes, raised above, Were fair with innocence. "Poor burning souls!" she whispered low, "ah me! No Angel ever comes to turn their key!"

THE BURIAL.

THOMAS DAVIS.

"ULULU! ululu! wail for the dead, Green grow the grass of Fingal on his head; And spring-flowers blossom, ere elsewhere appearing, And shamrocks grow thick on the martyr for Erin. Ululu! ululu! soft fall the dew On the feet and the head of the martyred and true."

For a while they tread In silence dread— Then muttering and moaning go the crowd, Surging and swaying like mountain cloud, And again the wail comes wild and loud.

"Ululu! ululu! kind was his heart! Walk slower, walk slower, too soon we shall part. The faithful and pious, the Priest of the Lord, His pilgrimage over, he has his reward.

"By the bed of the sick, lowly kneeling, To God with the raised cross appealing— He seems still to kneel, and he seems still to pray, And the sins of the dying seem passing away.

"In the prisoner's cell, and the cabin so dreary, Our constant consoler, he never grew weary; But he's gone to his rest, And he's now with the blest, Where tyrant and traitor no longer molest— Ululu! ululu! wail for the dead! Ululu! ululu! here is his bed."

Short was the ritual, simple the prayer, Deep was the silence, and every head bare; The Priest alone standing, they knelt all around, Myriads on myriads, like rocks on the ground. Kneeling and motionless.— "Dust unto dust."

"He died as becometh the faithful and just— Placing in God his reliance and trust;"

Kneeling and motionless— "Ashes to ashes"— Hollow the clay on the coffin-lid dashes; Kneeling and motionless, wildly they pray, But they pray in their souls, for no gesture have they— Stern and standing—oh! look on them now! Like trees to one tempest the multitude bow.

HYMN FOR THE DEAD.

NEWMAN.

Help, Lord, the souls which Thou hast made, The souls to Thee so dear, In prison, for the debt unpaid Of sins committed here.

Those holy souls, they suffer on,

Resign'd in heart and will, Until Thy high behest is done, And justice has its fill. For daily falls, for pardon'd crime, They joy to undergo The shadow of Thy cross sublime, The remnant of Thy woe.

Help, Lord, the souls which Thou hast made, The souls to Thee so dear, In prison, for the debt unpaid Of sins committed here.

Oh! by their patience of delay, Their hope amid their pain, Their sacred zeal to burn away Disfigurement and stain; Oh! by their fire of love, not less In keenness than the flame, Oh! by their very helplessness, Oh! by Thy own great Name,

Good Jesu, help! sweet Jesu, aid The souls to Thee most dear, In prison, for the debt unpaid Of sins committed here.

THE TWO STUDENTS.

The Abbe de Saint Pierre, says Collin de Plancy, has given a long account, in his works, of a singular occurrence which took place in 1697, and which we are inclined to relate here:

In 1695, a student named Bezuel, then about fifteen years old, contracted a friendship with two other youths, students like himself, and sons of an attorney of Caen, named D'Abaquene. The elder was, like Bezuel, fifteen; his brother, eighteen months younger. The latter was named Desfontaines. The paternal name was then given only to the eldest; the names of those who came after were formed by means of some vague properties....

As the young Desfontaines' character was more in unison with Bezuel's than that of his elder brother, these two students became strongly attached to each other.

One day during the following year, 1696, they were reading together a certain history of two friends like themselves, who had promised each other, with some solemnity, that he of the two who died first would come back to give the survivor some account of his state. The historian added that the dead one really did come back, and that he told his friend many wonderful things. Young Desfontaines, struck by this narrative, which he did not doubt, proposed to Bezuel that they should make such a promise one to the other. Bezuel was at first afraid of such an engagement. But several months after, in the first days of June, 1697, as his friend was going to set out for Caen, he agreed to his proposal.

Desfontaines then drew from his pocket two papers in which he had written the double agreement. Each of these papers expressed the formal promise on the part of him who should die first to come and make his fate known to the surviving friend. He had signed with his blood the one that Bezuel was to keep. Bezuel, hesitating no longer, pricked his hand, and likewise signed with his blood the other document, which he gave to Desfontaines.

The latter, delighted to have the promise, set out with his brother. Bezuel received some days after a letter, in which his friend informed him that he had reached his home in safety, and was very well. The correspondence between them was to continue. But it stopped very soon, and Bezuel was uneasy.

It happened that on the 31st of July, 1697, being about 2 o'clock in the afternoon, in a meadow where his companions were amusing themselves with various games, he felt himself suddenly stunned and taken with a sort of faintness, which lasted for some minutes. Next day, at the same hour, he felt the same symptoms, and again on the day after. But then— it was Friday, the 2d of August—he saw advancing towards him his friend Desfontaines, who made a sign for him to come to him. Being in a sitting posture and under the influence of his swoon, he made another sign to the apparition, moving on his seat to make place for him.

The comrades of Bezuel moving around saw this motion, and were surprised.

As Desfontaines did not advance, Bezuel arose to go to him. The apparition then took him by the left arm, drew him aside some thirty paces, and said:

"I promised you that, if I died before you, I would come to tell you. I was drowned yesterday in the river at Caen, about this hour. I was out walking; it was so warm that we took a notion to bathe. A weakness came over me in the river, and I sank to the bottom. The Abbe de Menil-Jean, my companion, plunged in to draw me out; I seized his foot; but whether he thought it was a salmon that had caught hold of him, or that he felt it actually necessary to go up to the surface of the water to breathe, he shook me off so roughly that his foot gave me a great blow in the chest, and threw me to the bottom of the river, which is there very deep."

Desfontaines then told his friend many other things, which he would not divulge, whether the dead boy had prayed him not to do so, or for other reasons.

Bezuel wanted to embrace the apparition, but he found only a shadow. Nevertheless, the shadow had squeezed his arm so tightly, that it pained him after.

He saw the spirit several times, yet always a little taller than when they parted, and always in the half-clothing of a bather. He wore in his fair hair a scroll on which Bezuel could only read the word In. His voice had the same sound as when he was living, he appeared neither gay nor sad, but perfectly tranquil. He charged his friend with several commissions for his parents, and begged him to say for him the Seven Penitential Psalms, which had been given him as a penance by his confessor, three days before his death, and which he had not yet recited.

The apparition always ended by a farewell expressed in words which signified: "Till we meet again! (Au revoir!)" At last, it ceased at the end of some weeks; and the surviving friend, who had constantly prayed for the dead, concluded from this that his Purgatory was over.

This Monsieur Bezuel finished his studies, embraced the ecclesiastical state, became cure of Valogne, and lived long, esteemed by his parishioners and the whole city, for his good sense, his virtuous life, and his love of truth.

THE PENANCE OF DON DIEGO RIEZ.

A Legend of Lough Derg. [1]

[Footnote 1: Lough Derg, in Donegal, was a place famous for pilgrimage from a very early period, and was much resorted to out of France, Italy, and the Peninsula, during the Middle Ages, and even in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. In Mathew Paris, and Froissart, as well as in our native annals, and in O'Sullivan Beare, there are many facts of its extraordinary history.]

T. D. MCGEE.

There was a knight of Spain—Diego Riaz, Noble by four descents, vain, rich and young, Much woe he wrought, or the tradition lie is, Which lived of old the Castilians among; His horses bore the palm the kingdom over, His plume was tall, costliest his sword, The proudest maidens wished him as a lover, The caballeros all revered his word

But ere his day's meridian came, his spirit Fell sick, grew palsied in his breast, and pined— He fear'd Christ's kingdom he could ne'er inherit, The causes wherefore too well he divined. Where'er he turns, his sins are always near him, Conscience still holds her mirror to his eyes, Till those who long had envied came to fear him, To mock his clouded brow and wintry sighs.

Alas! the sins of youth are as a chain Of iron, swiftly let down to the deep, How far we feel not—till when, we'd raise't again We pause amid the weary work and weep. Ah, it is sad a-down Life's stream to see. So many aged toilers so distress'd, And near the source—a thousand forms of glee Fitting the shackle to Youth's glowing breast.

He sought peace in the city where she dwells not, He wooed her amid woodlands all in vain, He searches through the valleys, but he tells not The secret of his quest to priest or swain, Until, despairing evermore of pleasure, He leaves his land, and sails to far Peru; There, stands uncharm'd in caverns of treasure, And weeps on mountains heavenly high and blue.

Incessant in his ears rang this plain warning— "Diego, as thy soul, thy sorrow lives"; He hears the untired voice, night, noon, and morning, Yet understanding not, unresting grieves. One eve, a purer vision seized him, then he Vow'd to Lough Derg, an humble pilgrimage— The virtues of that shrine were known to many, And saving held even in that skeptic age.

With one sole follower, an Esquire trustful, He pass'd the southern cape which sailors fear, And eastward held: meanwhile his vain and lustful Past works more loathsome to his soul appear. Through the night-watches, at all hours o' day, He still was wakeful as the pilot, and For grace, his vow to keep, doth always pray, And for his death to lie in the saints' land.

But ere his eyes beheld the Irish shore, Diego died. Much gold he did ordain To God and Santiago—furthermore, His Esquire plighted, ere he went to Spain, To journey to the Refuge of the Lake; Before St. Patrick's solitary shrine, A nine days' vigil for his rest to make, Living on bitter bread and penitential wine. [1]

[Footnote 1: The brackish water of the lake, boiled, is called wine by the pilgrims.]

The vassal vow'd; but, ah! how seldom pledges Given to the dying, to the dead, are held! The Esquire reach'd the shore, where sand and sedge is O'er melancholy hills, by paths of eld; Treeless and houseless was the prospect round, Rock-strewn and boisterous the lake before; A Charon-shape in a skiff a-ground— The pilgrim turned, and left the sacred shore.

That night he lay a-bed hard by the Erne— The island-spangled lake—but could not sleep— When lo! beside him, pale, and sad, and stern, Stood his dead master, risen from the deep. "Arise," he said, "and come." From the hostelrie And over the bleak hills he led the sleeper, And when they reach'd Derg's shore, "Get in with me," He cried; "nor sink my soul in torments deeper."

The dead man row'd the boat, the living steer'd, Each in his pallor sinister, until The Isle of Pilgrimage they duly near'd— "Now hie thee forth, and work thy master's will!" So spoke the dead, and vanish'd o'er the lake, The Squire pursued his course, and gain'd the shrine, There, nine days' vigil duly he did make, Living on bitter bread and penitential wine.

The tenth eve shone in solemn, starry beauty, As he, rejoicing, o'er the old paths came, Light was his heart from its accomplished duty, All was forgotten, even the latest shame— When these brief words some disembodied voice Spoke near him: "Oh, keep sacred, evermore, Word, pledge, and vow, so may you still rejoice, And live among the Just when Time is o'er!"

THE DAY OF ALL SOULS.

ELIZA ALLEN STARR.

FROM the far past there comes a thought of sweetness, From the far past a thought of love and pain; A voice, how dear! a look of melting kindness, A voice, a look, we ne'er shall know again.

A fresh, young face, perchance of boyish gladness, An aged face, perchance of patient love; My heart-strings fail, I sob in utter anguish, As past my eyes these lovely spectres move.

The chill morn breaks, the matin star still flaming; The hushed cathedral's massive door stands wide; Through the dim aisles I pass, in silent weeping, From mortal eyes my sorrowing tears to hide.

Already morn has touched the painted windows; The yellow dawn creeps down the storied panes; Already, in the early solemn twilight, The sanctuary's taper softly wanes.

My faltering step before the altar pauses; My treasur'd dead I see remembered here; All climes, all nations, lost on land or ocean, They on whose grave none ever drop a tear.

The Church, their single mourner, drapes in sorrow The festal shrines she loves with flowers to dress; And "Kyrie! Kyrie!" sighs, while lowly bending To Thee, O God! to shorten their distress.

"Dies irae, dies illa," sobs the choir; "In pace, pace," from the altar rises higher; "Lux aeterna;" daylight floods the altar, Priest and choir take up the holy psalter. "Requiescant in pace!" Amen, amen, in pace!

THE MESSAGE OF THE NOVEMBER WIND.

BY ELEANOR C. DONNELLY.

I.

Wrapped in lonely shadows late, (Bleak November's midnight gloom), As I kneel beside the grate In the silent sitting-room: Down the chimney moans the wind, Like the voice of souls resigned, Pleading from their prison thus, "Pray for us! pray for us! Gentle Christian, watcher kind, Pray for us, oh! pray for us!"

II.

Melt mine eyes with sudden tears— Old familiar tones are there; Dear ones lost in other years, Breathing Purgatory's prayer. Through my fingers pass the beads, Tender heart, responsive bleeds, As the wind, all tremulous, "Pray for us! pray for us!" Seems to murmur "Love our needs— Pray for us! oh, pray for us!"

A LEGEND OF THE TIME OF CHARLEMAGNE.

We read in the Gesta Caroli Magni that Charlemagne had a man-at- arms who served him faithfully till his death. Before breathing his last he called a nephew of his, to make known to him his last will:

"Sixty years," said he, "have I been in the service of my prince; I have never amassed the goods of this world, and my arms and my horse are all I have. My arms I leave to thee, and I will that my horse be sold immediately after my death; I charge thee with the care of this matter, if thou wilt promise me to distribute the full price amongst the poor."

The nephew promised to execute the will of his uncle, who died in peace, for he was a good and loyal Christian. But when he was laid in the earth the young man, considering that the horse was a very fine one, and well-trained, was tempted to keep him for himself. He did not sell him, and gave no money to the poor. Six months after, the soul of the dead man appeared to him and said: "Thou hast not accomplished that which I had ordered thee to do for the welfare of my soul, and for six months I have suffered great pains in Purgatory. But behold God, the strict Judge of all things, has decreed, and His angels will execute the decree, that my soul be placed in eternal rest, and that thine shall undergo all the pains and torments which I had still to undergo for the expiation of my sins."

Thereupon the nephew, being instantly seized with a violent disease, had barely time to confess to a priest, who had just been announced. He died shortly after, and went to pay the debt he had undertaken to discharge.

THE DEAD MASS.

It has been, and still is believed, that the mercy of God sometimes permits souls that have sins to expiate, to come and expiate them on earth. Of this the following is an example:

Polet, the principal suburb of Dieppe, is still inhabited almost exclusively by fishermen, who, in past times, more especially, have ever been solid and faithful Christians. The Catholic worship was formerly celebrated with much solemnity in their church, consecrated under the invocation of "Our Lady of the Beach" (Notre Dame des Greves); and the mothers of the worthy fishermen who give to Polet an aspect so picturesque, have forgotten only the precise date of the adventure we are about to relate.

The sacristan of Notre Dame des Greves dwelt in a little cottage quite close to the church. He was an exact and pious man; he had the keys of the sacred edifice and the care of the bells. Several worthy priests were attached to the lovely church; the earliest Masses were never rung except by the honest sacristan. Now, one morning, during the Christmas holydays, he heard, before day, the tinkle of one of his bells announcing a Mass. He rose immediately and ran to the window. The snow- covered roofs enabled him to see objects so distinctly that he thought the day was beginning to dawn. He hastened to put on his clothes and go to the church. The total solitude and silence reigning all around him made him understand that he was mistaken and that day was not yet breaking. He tried to go into the church, however, but the door was closed.

How, then, could he have heard the bell? If robbers had got in, they would certainly have taken good care not to touch the bell. He listens; not the slightest noise in the holy place. Should he return home? Not so, for having heard the bell, he must go in.

He opens a little door leading into the sacristy; he passes through that, and advances towards the choir.

By the light of the small lamp burning before the tabernacle and that of a taper already lighted, he perceives, at the foot of the altar, a priest robed in a chasuble, and in the attitude of a celebrant about to commence Mass. All is prepared for the Holy Sacrifice. He stops in dismay. The priest, a stranger to him, is extremely pale; his hands are as white as his alb; his eyes shine like the glow-worm, the light going forth, as it were, from the very centre of the orbits.

"Serve my Mass," he said gently to the sacristan.

The latter obeyed, spell-bound with terror. But if the pallor of the priest and the singular fire of his eyes frightened him, his voice, on the contrary, was mild and melancholy.

The Mass goes on. At the elevation of the Sacred Host the limbs of the priest tremble and give forth a sound like that of dry reeds shaken by the wind. At the Domine, non sum dignus, his breast, which he strikes three times, sounds like the coffin when the first shovel-full of earth is cast upon it by the grave-digger. The Precious Blood produces in his whole body the effect of water which, in the silence of the night, falls drop by drop from the roof.

When he turns to say Ita Missa est, the priest is only a skeleton, and that skeleton speaks these words to the server:

"Brother, I thank thee! In my life-time, I was a priest; I owed this Mass at my death. Thou hast helped me to discharge my debt; my soul is freed from a heavy burden."

The spectre then disappeared. The sacristan saw the vestments fall gently at the foot of the altar, and the burning taper suddenly went out. At that moment, a cock crowed somewhere in the neighborhood. The sacristan took up the vestments, and passed the rest of the night in prayer.

THE EVE OF ST. JOHN.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

"O fear not the priest who sleepeth to the east! For to Dryburgh the way he has ta'en; And there to say Mass, till three days do pass, For the soul of a Knight that is slayne."

He turned him round, and grimly he frowned; Then he laughed right scornfully— "He who says the Mass-rite for the soul of that Knight, May as well say Mass for me."

Then changed, I trow, was that bold baron's brow, From dark to the blood-red high; "Now tell me the mien of the Knight thou hast seen, For by Mary he shall die."

"O hear but my word, my noble lord, For I heard her name his name, And that lady bright, she called the Knight Sir Richard of Coldinghame."

The bold baron's brow then chang'd, I trow, From high blood-red to pale— "The grave is deep and dark—and the corpse is stiff and stark— So I may not trust thy tale.

"The varying light deceived thy sight, And the wild winds drown'd the name, For the Dryburgh bells ring, and the white monks do sing, For Sir Richard of Coldinghame."

It was near the ringing of matin-bell, The night was well-nigh done, When the lady looked through the chamber fair, On the eve of good St. John.

The lady looked through the chamber fair, By the light of a dying flame; And she was aware of a knight stood there— Sir Richard of Coldinghame.

"By Eildon-tree for long nights three, In bloody grave have I lain, The Mass and the death-prayer are said for me, But, lady, they are said in vain.

"By the baron's hand, near Tweed's fair stand, Most foully slain I fell; And my restless sprite on the beacon's height, For a space is doom'd to dwell."

He laid his left palm on an oaken beam, His right upon her hand; The lady shrunk, and fainting sunk, For it scorched like a fiery brand.

THE BEQUEST OF A SOUL, IN PURGATORY.

[From "A Collection of Spiritual Hymns and Songs on Various Religious Subjects," published by Chalmers & Co., of Aberdeen, Scotland, in 1802. Its quaint and touching simplicity, redolent of old-time faith, will commend it to the reader]

From lake where water does not go, A prisoner of hope below, To mortal ones I push my groans, In hopes they'll pity me.

O mortals that still live above, Your faith, hope, prayers, and alms, and love, Still merit place With God's sweet grace; O faithful, pity me.

My fervent groans don't merit here, Strict justice only doth appear, My smallest faults, And needless talks Heap chains and flames on me.

Though mortal guilt doth not remain, I still am due the temp'ral pain, I did delay To satisfy, Past coldness scorcheth me.

Tepidity and good works done With imperfections mixt, here come; All these neglects And least defects,— Great anguish bring on me.

Though my defects here be not spared, Yet endless glory for me's prepared, I love in flames, And hope in chains; O friends, then, pity me!

My God, my Father, is most dear, For me your sighs and prayers He'll hear; Though just laws scourge, His mercies urge, That you would pity me.

Through pains and flames I'll come to Him, They purge me both from stain and sin; When I'm set free, Their friends I'll be Who now do pity me.

The smallest thing that could defile Keeps me from bliss in this exile. God loves to see That you me free; For His love pity me!

For me who alms give, fast, or pray, Great store of grace will come their way; Try this good thought— Great help is brought, And souls from sin set free.

If you for me now do not pray, The utmost farthing I must pay; The time is hid That I'll be rid, Unless you pity me.

In mortal sin who yields his breath, Pray not for him behind his death. All mortal crime I quit in time; O faithful, pity me!

For me good works may be practised, Thus some were for the dead baptized. Suet pains endure For me, and sure You'll help and pity me!

For his good friend, as Scriptures say, Onesiphorus, Paul did pray, [1] His words, you see, Urge, then, for me; And thus you'll pity me.

[Footnote 1: II. Tim., i. 16, 18.]

This third place clear in writ you spy, Where all your works the fire will try, From death game rose, Sure then all those From third place were set free.

In hell there's no redemption found; God ne'er degrades whom He once crowned—These judgments both Confirmed by oath And absolute decree.

For all the Saints prayer should be made, Who stand in need, alive or dead. I stand in need That you with speed Should help and pity me.

In presence of our sweetest Lord, For dead they, prayed, as all accord. Christ did not blame What I now claim; Oh! haste and pity me!

To a third place Christ's soul did go. And preached to spirits there below; This in the Creed And Writ you read, That you may pity me.

When Christ on earth would stay no more, These captives freed He brought to glore; There I will be, And soon set free, If you would pity me.

Mind, then, Communion of the Saints; All should supply each other's wants: In pains and chains, And scorching flames, I languish; pity me!

Eternal rest, eternal glore, Eternal light, eternal store, To them accord, O sweetest Lord! There's mercy still with Thee!

Let mercy stay Thy just revenge, Their scorching flames to glory change; The precious flood Of Thine own blood For them we offer Thee!

ALL SOULS.

BY MARION MUIR.

FOR all the cold and silent clay That once, alive with youth and hope, Rushed proudly to the western slope- O brothers, pray!

For all who saw the orient day Rise on the plain, the camp, the flood, The sudden discord drowned in blood- O brothers, pray!

For all the lives that ebbed away In darkness down the gulf of tears; For all the gray departed years- O brothers, pray!

For all the souls that went astray In deserts hung with double gloom; For all the dead without a tomb- O brothers, pray!

For we have household peace; but they Who led the way, and held the land, Are homeless as the heaving sand- Oh! let us pray!

THE DEAD.

(From the French of Octave Cremacie.)

ANNA T. SADLIER.

O dead, ye sleep within your tranquil graves; No more ye bear the burden that enslaves Us in this world of ours. For you outshine no stars, no storms rave loud, No buds has spring, the horizon no cloud, The sun marks not the hours.

The while, with anxious thought oppress'd, we go, Each weary day but bringing deeper woe, Silently and alone Ye list the sanctuary chant arise, That downwards first to you, remounts the skies, Sweet pity's monotone.

The vain delights whereto our souls incline, Are naught beside the prayer to love divine, Alms-giving of the heart, Which reaching to you warms your chilly dust And brings your name enshrined a sacred trust, Swift to the throne of God!

Alas! love's warmest memory will fade Within the heart, ere yet the mourning shade Has ceased to mark the garb. Forgetfulness, our meed to you, outweighs The leaded coffin as it dully lays Upon your lifeless bones.

Our selfish hearts but to the present look, And see in you the pages of a book Now laid aside long read. For loving in our fev'rish joy or pain But those who serve our hate, pride, love of gain, No more can serve the dead.

To cold ambition or to joy's sweet store, Ye dusty corpses minister no more, We give to you neglect. Nor reck we of that suff'ring world's pale bourne Where you beyond the bridgeless barrier mourn O'erpast the wall of death.

'Tis said that when our coldness grieves you sore, Ye quit betimes that solitude's cold shore Where ye forsaken dwell, And flit about in darkness' sad constraint, The while from spectral lips your mournful plaint Upon the winds outswell.

When nightingales their woodland nests have left, The autumn sky of gray, white-capped, cloud-reft, Prepares the shroud which Winter soon shall spread On frozen fields; there comes a day thrice blest, When earth forgetting, all our musings rest On those who are no more the dreamless dead.

The dead their graves forsake upon this day, As we have seen doves mount with joyous grace, Escape an instant from their prison drear, Their coming brings us no repellent fear. Their mien is dreamy, passing sweet their face, Their fixed and hollow eyes cannot betray.

When spectral coming thus unseen they gaze On crowds who, kneeling in the temple, pray Forgiveness for them, one faint, joyful ray, As light upon the opal, glittering plays, On faces pale and calm an instant rests, And brings a moment's warmth to clay-cold breasts.

They, the elect of God, with souls of saints, Who bear each destined load without complaints,

Who walk all day beneath God's watching eye, And sleep the night 'neath angels' ministry, Nor made the sport of visions that arise To show th' abyss of fire to dreaming eyes.

All they who while on earth, the pure of heart, The heav'nly echoes hear, and who in part Make smooth for man rude ways he has to tread, And knowing earthly vanity, outspread Their virtue like a carpet rich and rare, And walk o'er evil, touching it nowhere.

When come sad guests from off that suff'ring shore, Which Dante saw in dream sublime of yore, Appearing midst us here that day most blessed, 'Tis but to those; for they alone have guessed The secrets of the grave; alone they understand The pallid mendicants, who ask for heav'n.

Of Israel's King the psalms, inspired cries, With Job's sublime distress, commingled rise; The sanctuary sobs them through the naves While wak'ning subtle fear, the bell's deep toll With fun'ral sounds, demanding pity's dole For wand'ring ghosts, as countless as the waves.

Give on this day, when over all the earth The Church to God makes moan for parted worth; Your own remorse, regret at least to calm Awak'ning memory's dying flame, give balm, Flow'rs for their graves, and prayer for each loved soul, Those gifts divine can yet the dead console.

Pray for your friends, and for your mother pray, Who made less drear for you life's desert way, For all the portions of your heart that lie Shut in the tomb, alas, each youthful tie Is lost within the coffin's close constraint, Where, prey of worms, the dead send up their plaint

For exiles far from home and native land, Who dying hear no voice, nor touch no hand In life alone, more lonely still in death. With none for their repose, to breathe one prayer, Cast alms of tears upon an alien grave, Or heed the stranger lonely even there;

For those whose wounded souls when here below, But anxious thought and bitter fancies know, With days all joyless, nights of dull unrest; For those who in night's calm find all so blest And meet, in place of hope with morning beams, A horrid wak'ning to their golden dreams;

For all the pariahs of human kind Who, heavy burdens bearing, find How high the steeps of human woe they scale. Oh, let your heart some off'ring make to these, One pious thought, one holy word of peace, Which shall twixt them and God swift rend the veil.

The tribute bring of prayers and holy tears, That when your hour draws nigh of nameless fears, When reached their term shall be your numbered days, Your name made known above with grateful praise, By those whose suff'rings it was yours to end, Arriving there find welcome as a friend!

Your loving tribute, white-winged angels take, Ere bearing it unto eternal spheres, An instant lay it on the grass-grown graves, While dying flow'rs in church-yards raise each head To life, refreshed by breath of prayer, awake And shed their fragrance on the sleeping dead.

A REQUIEM.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

No sound was made, no word was spoke, Till noble Angus silence broke; And he a solemn sacred plight Did to St. Bryde of Douglas make, That he a pilgrimage would take To Melrose Abbey, for the sake Of Michael's restless sprite. Then each, to ease his troubled breast, To some blessed saint his prayers addressed- Some to St. Modan made their vows, Some to St. Mary of the Lowes, Some to the Holy Rood of Lisle, Some to our Lady of the Isle; Each did his patron witness make, That he such pilgrimage would take, And monks should sing, and bells should toll, All for the weal of Michael's soul, While vows were ta'en, and prayers were prayed.

Most meet it were to mark the day Of penitence and prayer divine, When pilgrim-chiefs, in sad array, Sought Melrose, holy shrine. With naked foot, and sackcloth vest, And arms enfolded on his breast, Did every pilgrim go; The standers-by might hear aneath, Footstep, or voice, or high-drawn breath. Through all the lengthened row; No lordly look, no martial stride, Gone was their glory, sunk their pride,

Forgotten their renown; Silent and slow, like ghosts, they glide, To the high altar's hallowed side, And there they kneeled them down; Above the suppliant chieftains wave The banners of departed brave; Beneath the lettered stones were laid The ashes of their fathers dead; From many a garnished niche around, Stern saint and tortured martyr frowned, And slow up the dim aisle afar, With sable cowl and scapular, And snow-white stoles, in order due, The holy Fathers, two and two, In long procession came; Taper, and host, and book they bare, And holy banner, flourished fair With the Redeemer's name; Above the prostrate pilgrim band The mitred Abbot stretched his hand, And blessed them as they kneeled; With holy cross he signed them all, And prayed they might be sage in hall, And fortunate in field.

The Mass was sung, and prayers were said, And solemn requiem for the dead; And bells tolled out their mighty peal, For the departed spirit's weal; And ever in the office close The hymn of intercession rose; And far the echoing aisles prolong The awful burthen of the song— Dies Irae, Dies Illa, Salvet SAElum in Favilla; While the pealing organ rung, Thus the holy father sung:

HYMN FOR THE DEAD.

The day of wrath, that dreadful day, When heaven and earth shall pass away, What power shall be the sinner's stay? How shall he meet that dreadful day? When, shrivelling like a parched scroll, The flaming heavens together roll; While louder yet, and yet more dread, Swells the high trump that wakes the dead; O! on that day, that wrathful day, When man to judgment wakes from clay, Be Thou the trembling sinner's stay, Though heaven and earth shall pass away.

THE PENANCE OF ROBERT THE DEVIL.

COLLIN DE PLANCY.

In Normandy, the most sinister associations still remain connected with the name of Robert the Devil. By the people, who change historical details, but yet preserve the moral thereof, it is believed that Robert is undergoing his penance here below, on the theatre of his crimes, and that, after a thousand years, it is not yet ended. Messrs. Taylor and Charles Nodier have mentioned this tradition in their "Voyage Pittoresque de l'Ancienne France" ("Picturesque Journey through Old France").

"On the left shore of the Seine," say they, "not far from Moulineaux, are seen the colossal ruins, which are said to be the remains of the castle, or fortress, of Robert the Devil. Vague recollections, a ballad, some shepherd's tales—these are all the chronicles of those imposing ruins. Nevertheless, the fame of Robert the Devil's doings still survives in the country which he inhabited. His very name still excites that sentiment of fear which ordinarily results only from recent impressions.

"In the vicinity of the castle of Robert the Devil every one knows his misdeeds, his violent conquests, and the rigor of his penance. The cries of his victims still reecho through the vaults, and come to terrify himself in his nocturnal wanderings, for Robert is condemned to visit the ruins and the dungeons of his castle.

"Sometimes, if the old traditions of the country are to be believed, Robert has been seen, still clad in the loose tunic of a hermit, as on the day of his burial, wandering in the neighborhood of his castle, and visiting, barefoot and bareheaded, the little corner of the plain where the cemetery must have been. Sometimes, a shepherd straying through the adjoining copse in search of his flock, scattered by an evening storm, has been frightened by the fearful aspect of the phantom, seen by the glare of the lightning, flitting about amongst the graves. He has heard him, in the pauses of the tempest, imploring the pity of their mute inhabitants; and on the morrow he shunned the place in horror, because the earth, freshly turned up, had opened on every side to terrify the murderer."

But there is another tradition which we cannot omit.

A band of those Northmen who, during the troubled reign of Charles III. of France—without any sufficient reason called Charles the Simple—had invaded that part of Neustria where Robert the Devil was born; a group of these fierce warriors were one evening warming themselves around a fire of brambles, and, joyous in a country more genial than their own, they sang, to a wild melody, the great deeds of their princes, when they saw, leaning against the trunk of a tree, an old man poorly clad, and of a sad, yet resigned aspect. They called to him as he passed along before the fortress of Robert the Devil, then only half ruined.

"Good man," said they, "sing us some song of this country."

The old man, advancing slowly, chanted in an humble yet manly voice, the beautiful prose of St. Stephen. It told how the first of the martyrs paid homage till the end to Jesus Christ, Our Lord; and how, expiring under their blows, he besought Heaven to forgive his murderers.

But this hymn displeased the rude band, who began brutally to insult the old man. The latter fell on one knee and uttered no complaint.

At this moment appeared a young man, before whom all the soldiers rose to their feet. His lofty mien and his tone of authority indicated the son of a mighty lord.

"You who insult a defenceless old man," said he, "your conduct is base and cowardly. Away with you! those who insult women or old men are unworthy to march with the brave. For you, good old man, come and share my meal. It is for the chief to repair the wrong-doings of those he commands."

"Young man," said the stranger, "what you have just done is pleasing to God, who loveth justice; but it concerneth not me, who can bear no ill- will to any one."

He then told his name; related the hideous story of his crimes, then his conversion through the prayers of his mother, and his penance, which was to last yet a long time. He showed how the grace of faith and of repentance had entered into his heart.

"Exhausted with emotion," said he, "I sat down on a stone amid some ruins; I slept. Oh! blessed be my good angel for having sent me that sleep! Scarcely had I closed mine eyes when I had a vision. It seemed to me that the mountain on which rises the Castle of Moulinets darted up to heaven and formed a staircase. Up the steps went slowly a crowd of phantoms, in which I, alas! recognized my crimes. There were women and young maidens, whose death was my doing, hardworking vassals dishonored, old men driven from their dwellings, and forced to ask the bread of charity. I saw thus ascending not only men, but things, houses burned, crops destroyed, flocks, the hope and the care of a whole life of toil, sacrificed at a moment in some wild revel.

"And I saw an angel rising rapidly. Then did my limbs quiver like the leaves of the aspen. I said to that ascending angel:

"'Whither goest thou?' He answered: 'I bring thy crimes before the Lord, that they may bear testimony against thee.'

"Then all my members became as it were burning grass. 'O good angel!' I cried, 'could I not at least efface some of these images?' He replied: 'All, if thou wilt.' 'And how?' 'Confess them; the breath of thy avowal will disperse them. Weep them in penance, and thy tears will efface even the traces thereof.'"

The old man then told how he had made his confession, and what penance he did, wandering about in rags, without other food than that which he shared with the dogs.

"I had known," he added, "all the pleasures of the earth, and had known some of its joys. But I found them still more in the miseries, the life-long fatigue, the hard humiliations of penance, because they were expiating my faults. Thus, then, O strangers, whatever fate Heaven may decree for you, if you desire happiness, find Our Lord Jesus Christ, and practice His justice."

The old man was silent; the barbarians remained motionless. He, however, taking the young chief by the hand, led him to the esplanade of the castle, and showing him all that vast country which is watered by the Seine: "Young man," said he, "for as much as thou hast protected a poor old man, God will reward the noble heart within thee. Thou seest these lands so rich—they were once mine; and even now, after God, they have no other lawful owner. I give them to thee; make faith and equity reign there. I will rejoice in thy reign."

Now this chief, to whom the penitent Robert thus bequeathed his faith and his inheritance, was Rollo, first Duke of the Normans.

ALL SOULS' EVE.

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.

Methought I heard a trail Like to slowly-falling hail And the sadly-plaintive wail Of a misty file of souls, As they glided o'er the grass, Sighing low: "Alas! alas! How the laggard moments pass In purgatorial doles!"

Through their garments' glancing sheen, As if nothing were between, Pierced the moon's benignant beam To a grove of stunted pines; In whose distant lightsome shade, With their gilded coats arrayed,

Danced a fairy cavalcade, To a fairy poet's rhymes.

Then a cloud obscured the moon, And the fairy dance and rune Faded down behind the gloom Which along the upland fell, And my ears could only hear, In the church-yard lone and drear, The tinkle soft and clear Of the morning Mass's bell. It eddied through the air, And it seemed to call to prayer All the waiting spirits there Which the moon's beams showed, But each tinkle sank to die In a heart-distressing sigh, And no worshippers drew nigh With the penitential word.

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 snatch of sacred song, All the peopled graves among, Ite Missa est!

Then a cry, as Angels raise In an ecstasy of praise, When the Godhead'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 Viaticum, 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; God with His glory signs His dearly-ransomed creatures.

Yes, they are more our own, Since now they are God'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 God 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 passion 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 God 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 analogy 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 pricke thee to the bare bane; And Christe receive thye saule.

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

From Brig o' Dread when thou mayest passe, 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.

If meat or drink thou never gavest nane, Every nighte and alle; The fire will burn thee to the bare bane; And Christe receive thye saule.

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

ALL SOULS' DAY.

SECOND VESPERS OF ALL SAINTS.

From "Lyra Liturgica."

What means this veil of gloom Drawn o'er the festive scene; The solemn records of the tomb Where holy mirth hath been: As if some messenger of death should fling His tale of woe athwart some nuptial gathering?

Our homage hath been given With gladsome voice to them Who fought, and won, and wear in heaven Christ's robe and diadem; Now to the suffering Church we must descend, Our "prisoners of hope" with succor to befriend.

They will not strive nor cry, Nor make their pleading known; Meekly and patiently they lie, Speaking with God alone; And this the burden of their voiceless song, Wafted from age to age, "How long, O Lord, how long?"

O blessed cleansing pain! Who would not bear thy load, Where every throb expels a stain, And draws us nearer GOD? Faith's firm assurance makes all anguish light, With earth behind, and heaven fast opening on the sight.

Yet souls that nearest come To their predestin'd gain, Pant more and more to reach their home: Delay is keenest pain To those that all but touch the wish'd for shore, Where sin, and grief that comes of sin, shall fret no more.

And O—O charity, For sweet remembrance sake, These souls, to God so very nigh, Into your keeping take! Speed them by sacrifice and suffrage, where They burn to pour for you a more prevailing prayer.

They were our friends erewhile, Co-heirs of saving grace; Co-partners of our daily toil, Companions in our race; We took sweet counsel in the house of God, And sought a common rest along a common road.

And had their brethren car'd To keep them just and pure, Perchance their pitying God had spar'd, The pains they now endure. What if to fault of ours those pains be due, To ill example shown, or lack of counsel true?

Alas, there are who weep In fierce, unending flame, Through sin of those on earth that sleep, Regardless of their shame; Or who, though they repent, too sadly know No help of theirs can cure or soothe their victim's woe.

Thanks to our God who gives, In fruitful Mass or prayer, To many a friend that dies, yet lives, A salutary share; Nor stints our love, though cords of sense be riven, Nor bans from hope the soul that is not ripe for heaven.

Feast of the Holy Dead! Great Jubilee of grace! When angel guards exulting lead To their predestin'd place Souls, that the Church shall loose from bonds to-day In every clime that basks beneath her genial sway.

THE SUFFERING SOULS.

BY E. M. V. BULGER.

It is a holy and wholesome thought to pray for the dead.—II Mac. xii. 46.

In some quiet hour at the close of day, When your work is finished and laid away, Think of the suffering souls, and pray.

Think of that prison of anguish and pain, Where even the souls of the Saints remain, Till cleansed by fire from the slightest stain.

Think of the souls who were dear to you When this life held them; still be true, And pray for them now; it is all you can do.

Think of the souls who are lonely there, With no one, perchance, to offer a prayer That God may have pity on them and spare.

Think of the souls that have longest lain In that place of exile and of pain, Suffering still for some uncleansed stain.

Think of the souls who, perchance, may be On the very threshold of liberty— One "Ave Maria" may set them free!

Oh, then, at the close of each passing day, When your work is finished and folded away, Think of the suffering souls, and pray!

Think of their prison, so dark and dim, Think of their longing to be with Him Whose praises are sung by the cherubim!

As you tell the beads of your Rosary, Ask God's sweet Mother their mother to be; Her immaculate hands hold Heaven's key.

Oh, how many souls are suffering when You whisper "Hail Mary" again and again, May see God's face as you say "Amen!"

—Ave Maria, November 24, 1883.

THE VOICES OF THE DEAD.

'Twas the hour after sunset, And the golden light had paled; The heavy foliage of the woods Were all in shadow veiled.

Yet a witchery breathed through the soft twilight, A thought of the sun that was set, And a soft and mystic radiance Through the heavens hung lingering yet.

The purple hills stood clear and dark Against the western sky, And the wind came sweeping o'er the grass With a wild and mournful cry:

It swept among the grass that grows Above the quiet grave, And stirred the boughs of the linden-trees That o'er the church-yard wave.

And the low murmur of the leaves All softly seemed to say,

"It is a good and wholesome thought For the dead in Christ to pray."

Earth's voices all are low and dim; But a human heart is there, With psalms and words of holy Church, To join in Nature's prayer.

A Monk is pacing up and down; His prayers like incense rise; Ever a sweet, sad charm for him Within that church-yard lies.

Each morning when from Mary's tower The sweet-toned Ave rings, This herdsman of the holy dead A Mass of Requiem sings.

And when upon the earth there falls The hush of eventide, A dirge he murmurs o'er the graves Where they slumber side by side.

"Eternal light shine o'er them, Lord! And may they rest in peace!" His matins all are finished now, And his whispered accents cease.

But, hark! what sound is that which breaks The stillness of the hour? Is it the ivy as it creeps Against the gray church tower?

Is it the sound of the wandering breeze, Or the rustling of the grass, Or the stooping wing of the evening birds As home to their nests they pass? 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 Masses 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 God. [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 Mass 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 passed 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 passed each grave with reverential awe, As if he passed 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 passed 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 God; Veiling their faces they had veiled their names. The very ones who played with them as girls, Had they passed 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 illustrated, 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 compassionate 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."

NOVEMBER.

ANNA. T. SADLIER.

Robed in mourning, nave and chancel, In the livery of the dead, Hymns funereal are chanted. Services sublime are read.

Sounds the solemn Dies Irae, Fraught with echoes from the day When the majesty of Heaven Shall appear in dread array.

Next the Gospel's weird recital, Full of mystery and dread; Holding message for the living, Bringing tidings of the dead.

With its resurrection promised— Resurrection unto life, With its full and true fruition, And immunity from strife.

Blest immunity from sorrow, Primal man's unhappy dower; While the evil shall find judgment In the resurrection hour.

To the Lord, the King of Glory, Goes the voiceless, tuneless prayer, From the deep pit to deliver, From eternal pains to spare.

All who wait the holy coming, Wait the dawning of a day That shall ope the gates of darkness, Shall illume the watcher's way. May the holy Michael lead them To the fullness of the light That of old, in prophet visions, Burst on Adam's dazzled sight.

May they pass from death to living— Message that the Master's voice Gave to Abraham the faithful, Bade his exiled soul rejoice.

May perpetual light descending Touch their foreheads, dark with fear— Dark with deadly torments suffered; Sign them with the glory near!

May they rest, O Lord, forever In a peace that, unexpressed, Shall bestow upon the pilgrims Dual crowns of light and rest!

Death's weird canticle is ringing In its supplication strong— In its far cry to the heavens, Couched in wild, unearthly song.

Ay, this Libera o'ercomes us, Requiem, at once, and dirge— Makes this life with life immortal In our consciousness to merge.

FOR THE SOULS IN PURGATORY.

ANONYMOUS.

Ye souls of the faithful who sleep in the Lord, But as yet are shut out from your final reward, Oh! would I could lend you assistance to fly From your prison below to your palace on high!

O Father of Mercies! Thine anger withhold, These works of Thy hand in Thy mercy behold; Too oft from Thy path they have wandered aside, But Thee, their Creator, they never denied.

O tender Redeemer, their misery see, Deliver the souls that were ransomed by Thee; Behold how they love Thee, despite all their pain; Restore them, restore them to favor again!

O Spirit of Grace! O Consoler divine! See how for Thy presence they longingly pine; Ah! then, to enliven their sadness descend, And fill them with peace and with joy in the end!

O Mother of Mercy! dear soother in grief! Send thou to their torments a balmy relief; Oh! temper the rigor of justice severe, And soften their flames with a pitying tear.