He wondered at the stories that were hid
Forever down within those simple graves.
ONE HOUR AFTER DEATH.
ELIZA ALLEN STARR.
Oh! I could envy thee thy solemn sleep,
Thy sealed lid, thy rosary-folding palm,
Thy brow, scarce cold, whose wasted outlines keep
The "_Bona Mors_" sublime, unfathomed calm.
I sigh to wear myself that burial robe
Anointed hands have blessed with pious care:
What nuptial garb on all this mortal globe
Could with thy habit's peaceful brown compare?
Beneath its hallowed folds thy feeble dust
Shall rest serenely through the night of time;
Unharmed by worm, or damp, or century's rust,
But, fresh as youth, shall greet th' eternal prime
Of that clear morn, before whose faintest ray
Earth's bliss will pale, a taper's flickering gleam;
I see it break! the pure, celestial day,
And stars of mortal hope already dim.
"_In pace_" Lord, oh! let her sweetly rest
In Paradise, this very day with Thee:
Her faithful lips her dying Lord confessed,
Then let her soul Thy risen glory see!
A PRAYER FOR THE DEAD.
T. D. MCGEE.
Let us pray for the dead!
For sister and mother,
Father and brother,
For clansman and fosterer,
And all who have loved us here;
For pastors, for neighbors,
At rest from their labors;
Let us pray for our own beloved dead!
That their souls may be swiftly sped
Through the valley of purgatorial fire,
To a heavenly home by the gate called Desire!
I see them cleave the awful air,
Their dun wings fringed with flame;
They hear, they hear our helping prayer,
They call on Jesu's name.
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