Purgatory: Doctrinal, Historical, and Poetical Part 41

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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d?

Faith's firm a.s.surance 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 sh.o.r.e, Where sin, and grief that comes of sin, shall fret no more.

And O--O charity, For sweet remembrance sake, These souls, to G.o.d 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 G.o.d, And sought a common rest along a common road.

And had their brethren car'd To keep them just and pure, Perchance their pitying G.o.d 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 G.o.d who gives, In fruitful Ma.s.s 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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.sing 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 G.o.d'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 G.o.d'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 gra.s.s With a wild and mournful cry:

It swept among the gra.s.s 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 Ma.s.s 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?