Purgatory - Mary Anne Madden Sadlier (best e reader for epub TXT) 📗

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 Iræ ,
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.

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 pass'd in momentary glare;
Behind the fretted choir the yellow ray,
On either hand the altar, blazing fell.
She thought upon the multitude 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 Mass,
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.

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