Over the gulf that yawns beneath,
Their echoed thanks he hears
For the Masses he has offered up,
For his orisons and tears.
And as the strange responsory
Mounts from the church-yard sod,
Their mingled prayers and answers rise
Unto the throne of God. [1]
[Footnote 1: There is a story recorded of St. Birstan, Bishop of
Winchester, who died about the year of Christ 944, how he was wont
every day to say Mass and Matins for the dead; and one evening, as he
walked in the church-yard, reciting his said Matins, when he came to
the _Requiescat in Pace_, the voices in the graves round about him
made answer aloud, and said, "Amen, Amen!"--_From the "English
Martyrology" for October 22_]
--_M. R., in "The Lamp," Oct. 31, 1863._
THE CONVENT CEMETERY.
REV. ABRAM J. RYAN.
[This is an extract from Father Ryan's poem, "Their Story Runneth
Thus."]
And years and years, and weary years passed on
Into the past; one autumn afternoon,
When flowers were in their agony of death,
And winds sang "_De Profundis_" o'er them,
And skies were sad with shadows, he did walk
Where, in a resting-place as calm as sweet,
The dead were lying down; the autumn sun
Was half-way down the west--the hour was three,
The holiest hour of all the twenty-four,
For Jesus leaned His head on it, and died.
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