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.