Purgatory: Doctrinal, Historical, and Poetical Part 44

Peal out evermore-- Peal as ye pealed of yore, Brave old bells, on each holy day.

In suns.h.i.+ne and gladness, Through clouds and through sadness, Bridal and burial have both pa.s.sed away.

Tell us life's pleasures with death are still rife; Tell us that death ever leadeth to life; Life is our labor and death is our rest, If happy the living, the dead are the blest.

--_Popular Poetry_.

O HOLY CHURCH!

HARRIET M. SKIDMORE.

O holy Church! thy mother-heart Still clasps the child of grace; And nought its links of love can part, Or rend its fond embrace.

Thy potent prayer and sacred rite Embalm the precious clay, That waits the resurrection-light-- The fadeless Easter day.

And loving hearts, by faith entwined, True to that faith shall be, And keep the sister-soul enshrined In tender memory;

Shall bid the ceaseless prayer ascend, To win her guerdon blest; The radiant day that hath no end, The calm, eternal rest.

AN INCIDENT OF THE BATTLE OF BANNOCKBURN.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Again he faced the battle-field-- Wildly they fly, are slain, or yield.

"Now then," he said, and couch'd his spear, "My course is run, the goal is near; One effort more, one brave career, Must close this race of mine."

Then, in his stirrups rising high, He shouted loud his battle-cry, "St. James for Argentine!"

Now toil'd the Bruce, the battle done, To use his conquest boldly won: And gave command for horse and spear To press the Southern's scatter'd rear, Nor let his broken force combine, When the war-cry of Argentine Fell faintly on his ear!

"Save, save his life," he cried. "O save The kind, the n.o.ble, and the brave!"

The squadrons round free pa.s.sage gave, The wounded knight drew near.

He raised his red-cross s.h.i.+eld no more, Helm, cuish, and breast-plate stream'd with gore.

Yet, as he saw the King advance, He strove even then to couch his lance-- The effort was in vain!

The spur-stroke fail'd to rouse the horse; Wounded and weary, in 'mid course He tumbled on the plain.

Then foremost was the generous Bruce To raise his head, his helm to loose:-- "Lord Earl, the day is thine!

My sovereign's charge, and adverse fate, Have made our meeting all too late; Yet this may Argentine, As boon from ancient comrade, crave-- A Christian's Ma.s.s, a soldier's grave."

Bruce pressed his dying hand--its grasp Kindly replied; but, in his clasp It stiffen'd and grew cold-- And, "O farewell!" the victor cried, Of chivalry the flower and pride, The arm in battle bold, The courteous mien, the n.o.ble race, The stainless faith, the manly face!

Bid Ninian's convent light their shrine, For late-wake of De Argentine.

O'er better knight on death-bier laid, Torch never gleamd, nor Ma.s.s was said! [1]

[Footnote 1: It is said that the body of Sir Giles de Argentine was brought to Edinburgh, and interred with the greatest pomp in St. Giles'

Church. Thus did the royal Bruce respond to the dying knight's request.]

--_From "The Lord of the Isles"_

PRAY FOE THE MARTYRED DEAD.

Pray for the Dead! When, conscienceless, the nations

Rebellious rose to smite the thorn-crowned Head Of Christendom, their proudest aspirations Ambitioned but a place amongst the dead.

Pray for the Dead! The seeming fabled story of early chivalry, in them renewed, s.h.i.+nes out to-day with an ascendent glory Above that field of parricidal feud.

The children of a persecuted mother, When nations heard the drum of battle beat, Through coward Europe, brother leagued with brother, Rallied and perished at her sacred feet.

O Ireland, ever waiting the To-morrow, Lift up thy widowed, venerable head, Exultingly, through thy maternal sorrow, Not comfortless, like Rachel, for thy dead.

For, where the crimson shock of battle thundered, From hosts precipitated on a few, Above thy sons, outnumbered, crushed and sundered, Thy green flag through the smoke and glitter flew.

Lift up thy head! The hurricane that dashes Its giant billows on the Rock of Time, Divests thee, mother, of thy weeds and ashes, Rendering, at least, thy grief sublime.

For nations, banded into conclaves solemn, Thy name and spirit in the grave had cast, And carved thy name upon the crumbling column Which stands amid the unremembered Past.

Pray for the Dead! Cold, cold amid the splendor Of the Italian South our brothers sleep; The blue air broods above them warm and tender, The mists glide o'er them from the barren deep.

Pray for the Dead! High-souled and lion-hearted, Heroic martyrs to a glorious trust, By them our scorned name is re-a.s.serted, By them our banner rescued from the dust.

--_Kilkenny Journal_.

IN WINTER

ELIZA ALLEN STARR.

How lonely on the hillside look the graves!

The summer green no longer o'er them waves; No more, among the frosted boughs, are heard The mournful whip-poor-will or singing bird.

The rose-bush, planted with such tearful care, Stands in the winter suns.h.i.+ne stiff and bare; Save here and there its lingering berries red Make the cold sunbeams warm above the dead.

Through all the pines, and through the tall, dry gra.s.s, The fitful breezes with a s.h.i.+ver pa.s.s, While o'er the autumn's lately flowering weeds The snow-birds flit and peck the sh.e.l.ling seeds.

Because those graves look lonely, bleak and bare, Because they are not, as in summer, fair, O turn from comforts, cheery friends, and home, And 'mid their solemn desolation roam!

On each brown turf some fresh memorial lay; O'er each dear hillock's dust a moment stay, To breathe a "Rest in Peace" for those who lie On lonely hillsides 'neath a wintry sky.

OSEMUS.

MARY E MANNIX

Welcome, ye sad dirges of November, When Indian summer drops her brilliant crown All withered, as in clinging mantle brown She floats, away to die beneath the leaves; Pressed are the grapes, gathered the latest sheaves; O wailing winds! how can we but remember The loved and lost? O ceaseless monotones!

Hearing your plaints, counting your weary moans Like voices of the dead, like broken sighs From stricken souls who long for Paradise, We will not slight the message that ye bear, Nor check a pitying thought, nor guide a prayer.

They have departed, we must still remember; Welcome, ye sad, sad dirges of November!

FUNERAL HYMN.