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 pa.s.s 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 a.s.sistance 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.

Ye Patrons, who watched o'er their safety below, Oh! think how they need your fidelity now; And stir all the Angels and Saints in the sky To plead for the souls that upon you rely!

Ye friends, who once sharing their pleasure and pain, Now hap'ly already in Paradise reign, Oh! comfort their hearts with a whisper of love, And call them to share in your pleasures above!

O Fountain of Goodness! accept of our sighs: Let Thy mercy bestow what Thy justice denies; So may Thy poor captives, released from their woes, Thy praises proclaim, while eternity flows!

All ye who would honor the Saints and their Head, Remember, remember to pray for the dead-- And they, in return, from their misery freed, To you will be friends in the hour of your need!

--_Garland of Flowers_.

ALL SOULS' EVE.

'Twas All Souls' Eve; the lights in Notre Dame Blazed round the altar; gloomy, in the midst, The pall, with all its sable hangings, stood; With torch and taper, priests were ranged around, Chanting the solemn requiem of the dead; And then along the aisles the distant lights Moved slowly, two by two; the chapels shone Lit as they pa.s.s'd in momentary glare; Behind the fretted choir the yellow ray, On either hand the altar, blazing fell.

She thought upon the mult.i.tude of souls Dwelling so near and yet so separate.

With dawn she sought Saint Jacques; the altars there Had each its priest; the black and solemn Ma.s.s, The nodding feathers of the catafalque, The flaring torches, and the funeral chant, And intercessions for the countless souls In Purgatory still. With pity new The Pilgrim pray'd for the departed. Long She knelt before the Blessed Sacrament, Beside Our Lady's altar. Pictured there, She saw, imprisoned in the forked flames, The suffering souls who ask the alms of prayer; Her taper small an aged peasant lit, To burn before Our Lady, that her voice, Mother of mercy as she is, might plead For one who left her still on earth to pray.

. . . . . Sable veils Soon hid the altars; all things spoke of death, And realms where those who leave the upper air Wait till the stains of sin are cleansed, and pant Amid the thirsty flames for Paradise. [1]

[Footnote 1: These verses are taken from an anonymous metrical work called "The Pilgrim," published in England in 1867.]

OUR NEIGHBOR.

ELIZA ALLEN STARR.

Set it down gently at the altar rail, The faithful, aged dust, with honors meet; Long have we seen that pious face, so pale, Bowed meekly at her Saviour's blessed feet.

These many years her heart was hidden where Nor moth, nor rust, nor craft of man could harm; The blue eyes, seldom lifted, save in prayer, Beamed with her wished-for heaven's celestial calm.

As innocent as childhood's was the face, Though sorrow oft had touched that tender heart; Each trouble came as winged by special grace, And resignation saved the wound from smart.

On bead and crucifix her finger kept, Until the last, their fond, accustomed hold; "My Jesus," breathed the lips; the raised eyes slept, The placid brow, the gentle hand grew cold.

The choicely ripening cl.u.s.ter, ling'ring late Into October on its shrivelled vine, Wins mellow juices, which in patience wait Upon those long, long days of deep sunshine.

Then set it gently at the altar rail, The faithful, aged dust, with honors meet; How can we hope, if such as she can fail Before th' Eternal G.o.d's high judgment-seat?

PURGATORY.

OLD BELLS.

Ring out merrily, Loudly, cheerily, Blithe old bells from the steeple tower.

Hopefully, fearfully, Joyfully, tearfully, Moveth the bride from her maiden bower.

Cloud there is none in the bright summer sky, Sunshine flings benison down from on high; Children sing loud as the train moves along, "Happy the bride that the sun shineth on."

Knell out drearily, Measured out wearily, Sad old bells from the steeple gray.

Priests chanting slowly, Solemnly, slowly, Pa.s.seth the corpse from the portal to-day.

Drops from the leaden clouds heavily fall, Drippingly over the plume and the pall; Murmur old folk, as the train moves along, "Happy the dead that the rain raineth on."

Toll at the hour of prime, Matin and vesper chime, Loved old bells from the steeple high; Rolling, like holy waves, Over the lowly graves, Floating up, prayer-fraught, into the sky.

Solemn the lesson your lightest notes teach, Stern is the preaching your iron tongues preach; Ringing in life from the bud to the bloom; Ringing the dead to their rest in the tomb.