Purgatory by Mary Anne Madden Sadlier (adventure books to read TXT) 📕

reach'd Derg's shore, "Get in with me,"
He cried; "nor sink my soul in torments deeper."

The dead man row'd the boat, the living steer'd,
Each in his pallor sinister, until
The Isle of Pilgrimage they duly near'd -
"Now hie thee forth, and work thy master's will!"
So spoke the dead, and vanish'd o'er the lake,
The Squire pursued his course, and gain'd the shrine,
There, nine days' vigil duly he did make,
Living on bitter bread and penitential wine.

The tenth eve shone in solemn, starry beauty,
As he, rejoicing, o'er the old paths came,
Light was his heart from its accomplished duty,
All was forgotten, even the latest shame -
When these brief words some disembodied voice
Spoke near him: "Oh, keep sacred, evermore,
Word, pledge, and vow, so may you still rejoice,
And live among the Just when Time is o'er!"


THE DAY OF ALL SOULS.

ELIZA ALLEN STARR.

FROM the far past there comes a thought of sweetness,
From the far past a thought of love and pain;
A voice, how dear! a look of melting kindness,
A voice, a look, we ne'er shall know again.

A fresh, young face, perchance of boyish gladness,
An aged face, perchance of patient love;
My heart-strings fail, I sob in utter anguish,
As past my eyes these lovely spectres move.

The chill morn breaks, the matin star still flaming;
The hushed cathedral's massive door stands wide;
Through the dim aisles I pass, in silent weeping,
From mortal eyes my sorrowing tears to hide.

Already morn has touched the painted windows;
The yellow dawn creeps down the storied panes;
Already, in the early solemn twilight,
The sanctuary's taper softly wanes.

My faltering step before the altar pauses;
My treasur'd dead I see remembered here;
All climes, all nations, lost on land or ocean,
They on whose grave none ever drop a tear.

The Church, their single mourner, drapes in sorrow
The festal shrines she loves with flowers to dress;
And "Kyrie! Kyrie!" sighs, while lowly bending
To Thee, O God! to shorten their distress.

" Dies iræ, dies illa, " sobs the choir;
" In pace, pace, " from the altar rises higher;
" Lux æterna; " daylight floods the altar,
Priest and choir take up the holy psalter.
" Requiescant in pace!"
Amen, amen, in pace!


THE MESSAGE OF THE NOVEMBER WIND.

BY ELEANOR C. DONNELLY.

I.

Wrapped in lonely shadows late,
(Bleak November's midnight gloom),
As I kneel beside the grate
In the silent sitting-room:
Down the chimney moans the wind,
Like the voice of souls resigned,
Pleading from their prison thus,
"Pray for us! pray for us!
Gentle Christian, watcher kind,
Pray for us, oh! pray for us!"

II.

Melt mine eyes with sudden tears -
Old familiar tones are there;
Dear ones lost in other years,
Breathing Purgatory's prayer.
Through my fingers pass the beads,
Tender heart, responsive bleeds,
As the wind, all tremulous,
"Pray for us! pray for us!"
Seems to murmur "Love our needs -
Pray for us! oh, pray for us!"


A LEGEND OF THE TIME OF CHARLEMAGNE.

We read in the Gesta Caroli Magni that Charlemagne had a man-at- arms who served him faithfully till his death. Before breathing his last he called a nephew of his, to make known to him his last will:

"Sixty years," said he, "have I been in the service of my prince; I have never amassed the goods of this world, and my arms and my horse are all I have. My arms I leave to thee, and I will that my horse be sold immediately after my death; I charge thee with the care of this matter, if thou wilt promise me to distribute the full price amongst the poor."

The nephew promised to execute the will of his uncle, who died in peace, for he was a good and loyal Christian. But when he was laid in the earth the young man, considering that the horse was a very fine one, and well-trained, was tempted to keep him for himself. He did not sell him, and gave no money to the poor. Six months after, the soul of the dead man appeared to him and said: "Thou hast not accomplished that which I had ordered thee to do for the welfare of my soul, and for six months I have suffered great pains in Purgatory. But behold God, the strict Judge of all things, has decreed, and His angels will execute the decree, that my soul be placed in eternal rest, and that thine shall undergo all the pains and torments which I had still to undergo for the expiation of my sins."

Thereupon the nephew, being instantly seized with a violent disease, had barely time to confess to a priest, who had just been announced. He died shortly after, and went to pay the debt he had undertaken to discharge.


THE DEAD MASS.

It has been, and still is believed, that the mercy of God sometimes permits souls that have sins to expiate, to come and expiate them on earth. Of this the following is an example:

Polet, the principal suburb of Dieppe, is still inhabited almost exclusively by fishermen, who, in past times, more especially, have ever been solid and faithful Christians. The Catholic worship was formerly celebrated with much solemnity in their church, consecrated under the invocation of "Our Lady of the Beach" (Notre Dame des Grèves); and the mothers of the worthy fishermen who give to Polet an aspect so picturesque, have forgotten only the precise date of the adventure we are about to relate.

The sacristan of Notre Dame des Grèves dwelt in a little cottage quite close to the church. He was an exact and pious man; he had the keys of the sacred edifice and the care of the bells. Several worthy priests were attached to the lovely church; the earliest Masses were never rung except by the honest sacristan. Now, one morning, during the Christmas holydays, he heard, before day, the tinkle of one of his bells announcing a Mass. He rose immediately and ran to the window. The snow- covered roofs enabled him to see objects so distinctly that he thought the day was beginning to dawn. He hastened to put on his clothes and go to the church. The total solitude and silence reigning all around him made him understand that he was mistaken and that day was not yet breaking. He tried to go into the church, however, but the door was closed.

How, then, could he have heard the bell? If robbers had got in, they would certainly have taken good care not to touch the bell. He listens; not the slightest noise in the holy place. Should he return home? Not so, for having heard the bell, he must go in.

He opens a little door leading into the sacristy; he passes through that, and advances towards the choir.

By the light of the small lamp burning before the tabernacle and that of a taper already lighted, he perceives, at the foot of the altar, a priest robed in a chasuble, and in the attitude of a celebrant about to commence Mass. All is prepared for the Holy Sacrifice. He stops in dismay. The priest, a stranger to him, is extremely pale; his hands are as white as his alb; his eyes shine like the glow-worm, the light going forth, as it were, from the very centre of the orbits.

"Serve my Mass," he said gently to the sacristan.

The latter obeyed, spell-bound with terror. But if the pallor of the priest and the singular fire of his eyes frightened him, his voice, on the contrary, was mild and melancholy.

The Mass goes on. At the elevation of the Sacred Host the limbs of the priest tremble and give forth a sound like that of dry reeds shaken by the wind. At the Domine, non sum dignus , his breast, which he strikes three times, sounds like the coffin when the first shovel-full of earth is cast upon it by the grave-digger. The Precious Blood produces in his whole body the effect of water which, in the silence of the night, falls drop by drop from the roof.

When he turns to say Ita Missa est , the priest is only a skeleton, and that skeleton speaks these words to the server:

"Brother, I thank thee! In my life-time, I was a priest; I owed this Mass at my death. Thou hast helped me to discharge my debt; my soul is freed from a heavy burden."

The spectre then disappeared. The sacristan saw the vestments fall gently at the foot of the altar, and the burning taper suddenly went out. At that moment, a cock crowed somewhere in the neighborhood. The sacristan took up the vestments, and passed the rest of the night in prayer.


THE EVE OF ST. JOHN.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

"O fear not the priest who sleepeth to the east!
For to Dryburgh the way he has ta'en;
And there to say Mass, till three days do pass,
For the soul of a Knight that is slayne."

He turned him round, and grimly he frowned;
Then he laughed right scornfully -
"He who says the Mass-rite for the soul of that Knight,
May as well say Mass for me."

Then changed, I trow, was that bold baron's brow,
From dark to the blood-red high;
"Now tell me the mien of the Knight thou hast seen,
For by Mary he shall die."

"O hear but my word, my noble lord,
For I heard her name his name,
And that lady bright, she called the Knight
Sir Richard of Coldinghame."

The bold baron's brow then chang'd, I trow,
From high blood-red to pale -
"The grave is deep and dark - and the corpse is stiff and stark -
So I may not trust thy tale.

"The varying light deceived thy sight,
And the wild winds drown'd the name,
For the Dryburgh bells ring, and the white monks do sing,
For Sir Richard of Coldinghame."

It was near the ringing of matin-bell,
The night was well-nigh done,
When the lady looked through the chamber fair,
On the eve of good St. John.

The lady looked through the chamber fair,
By the light of a dying flame;
And she was aware of a knight stood there -
Sir Richard of Coldinghame.

"By Eildon-tree for long