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 Abbé 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 curé 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 agèd 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 iræ, dies illa," sobs the choir; "In pace, pace," from the altar rises higher; "Lux æterna;" 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 Grèves); 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 Grèves 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 SÆlum 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.