Anna T. Sadlier

E'en now doth Sagittarius from on high, Outstretch his bow, and ravage all the earth, The hills, and meadows where of flowers the dearth Already felt, like some vast ruins lie.

The bleak November counts its primal day, While I, a witness of the year's decline, Glad of my rest, within the fields recline. No poet heart this beauty can gainsay, No feeling mind these autumn pictures scorn, But knows how their monotonous charms adorn. Oh, with what joy does dreamy sorrow stray At eve, slow pacing, the dun-colored vale; He seeks the yellow woods, and hears the tale Of winds that strip them of their lonely leaves; For this low murmur all my sense deceives. In rustling forests do I seem to hear Those voices long since still, to me most dear. In leaves grown sere they speak unto my heart.

This season round the coffin-lid we press, Religion wears herself a mourning dress, More grand she seems, while her diviner part At sight of this, a world in ruins, grows. To-day a pious usage she has taught, Her voice opens vaults wherein our fathers dwell. Alas, my memory doth keep that thought. The dawn appeareth, and the swaying bell Mingles its mournful sound with whistling winds, The Feast of Death proclaiming to the air. Men, women, children, to the Church repair, Where one, with speech and with example binds These happy tribes, maintaining all in peace. He follows them, the first apostles, near, Like them the pastor's holy name makes dear.

"With hymns of joy," said he, "but yesterday We celebrated the triumphant dead Who conquer'd heav'n by burning zeal, faith-fed. For plaintive shades, whom sorrow makes his prey We weep to-day, our mourning is their bliss, All potent prayer is privileged in this, Souls purified from sin by transient pain It frees; we'll visit their most calm domain. Man seeks it, and descends there every hour. But dry our tears, for now celestial rays The grave's dim region swift shall penetrate; Yea, all its dwellers in their primal state Shall wake, behold the light in mute amaze. Ah, might I to that world my flight then wing In triumph to my God, my flock recovered bring."

So saying, offered he the holy rite, With arms extended praying God to spare, The while adoring knelt he humbly there. That people prostrate! oh, most solemn sight That church, its porticoes with moss o'ergrown, The ancient walls, dim light and Gothic panes, In its antiquity the brazen lamp A symbol of eternity doth stamp. A lasting sun. God's majesty down sent, Vows, tears and incense from the altars rise, Young beauties praying 'neath their mothers' eyes, Do soften by their voices innocent, The touching pomp religion there reveals; The organ hush'd, the sacred silence round, All, all uplifts, ennobles and inspires; Man feels himself transported where the choirs Of seraphim with harps of gold entone Low at Jehovah's feet their endless song. Then God doth make His awful presence known, Hides from the wise, to loving hearts is shown: He seeks less to be proved than to be felt. From out the Church the multitudes depart, In separate groups unto th' abode they go Of tranquil death, their tears still silent flow. The standard of the Cross is borne apart, Sublime our songs for death their sacred theme, Now mixed with noise that heralds storms they seem; Now lower above our heads the dark'ning clouds, Our faces mournful, our funereal hymn Both air and landscape in our grief enshrouds.

Towards death's tranquil haven, on we fare, The cypress, ivy, and the yew trees haunt The spot where thorns seem growing everywhere. Sparse lindens rise up grimly here and there, The winds rush whistling through their branches gaunt. Hard by a stream, my mind found there exprest In waves and tombs a twofold lesson drest, Eternal movement and eternal rest.

Ah, with what holy joy these peasants fain Would honor parent dust; they seek with pride The stone or turf, concealing those allied To them by love, they find them here again. Alas, with us we may not seek the boon Of gazing on the ashes of our dead. Our dead are banish'd, on their rights we tread, Their bones unhonored at hap-hazard strewn. E'en now 'gainst us cry out their Manes pale, Those nations and those times dire woes entail, 'Mongst whom in hearts grown weak by slow degree, The cultus of the dead has ceased. Here, here, at least have they from wrong been free, Their heritage of peace preserving best. No sumptuous marbles burden names here writ, A shepherd, farmer, peasant, as is fit, Beneath these stones in tranquil slumber see; Perchance a Turenne, a Corneille they hide, Who lived obscure, e'en to himself unknown. But if from men he'd risen separate, Sublime in camps, the theatre, the state, His name by idol-loving worlds outcried, Would that have made his slumber here more sweet?

REQUIEM ÆTERNAM.

T. D. MCGEE.

[This beautiful requiem, written March 6th, 1868 (St. Victor's Day), on the death of an intimate friend, acquires a new pathos and a new solemnity, from the fact that its gifted author met his death at the hands of an assassin but one month later, on the 7th of April of the same year. Like Mozart, he wrote his own requiem]

Saint Victor's Day, a day of woe, The bier that bore our dead went slow And silent gliding o'er the snow-- Miserere Domine!

With Villa Maria's faithful dead, Among the just we make his bed, The cross, he loved, to shield his head-- Miserere Domine!

The skies may lower, wild storms may rave Above our comrade's mountain grave, That cross is mighty still to save-- Miserere Domine!

Deaf to the calls of love and care, He bears no more his mortal share, Nought can avail him now but prayer-- Miserere Domine!

To such a heart who could refuse Just payment of all burial dues, Of Holy Church the rite and use? Miserere Domine!

Right solemnly the Mass was said, While burn'd the tapers round the dead, And manly tears like rain were shed-- Miserere Domine!

No more St. Patrick's aisles prolong The burden of his funeral song, His noiseless night must now be long-- Miserere Domine!

Up from the depths we heard arise A prayer of pity to the skies, To Him who dooms or justifies-- Miserere Domine!

Down from the skies we heard descend The promises the Psalmist penned, The benedictions without end-- Miserere Domine!

Mighty our Holy Church's will To shield her parting souls from ill, Jealous of Death, she guards them still-- Miserere Domine! The dearest friend will turn away, And leave the clay to keep the clay, Ever and ever she will stay-- Miserere Domine!

When for us sinners at our need, That mother's voice is raised to plead, The frontier hosts of heaven 'take heed-- Miserere Domine!

Mother of Love! Mother of fear, And holy Hope, and Wisdom dear, Behold we bring thy suppliant here-- Miserere Domine!

His glowing heart is still for aye, That held fast by thy clemency, Oh! look on him with loving eye-- Miserere Domine!

His Faith was as the tested gold, His Hope assured, not over-bold, His Charities past count, untold-- Miserere Domine!

Well may they grieve who laid him there, Where shall they find his equal--where? Nought can avail him now but prayer-- Miserere Domine!

Friend of my soul, farewell to thee! Thy truth, thy trust, thy chivalry; As thine? so may my last end be! Miserere Domine!