That night he lay a-bed hard by the Erne-- The island-spangled lake--but could not sleep-- When lo! beside him, pale, and sad, and stern, Stood his dead master, risen from the deep. "Arise," he said, "and come." From the hostelrie And over the bleak hills he led the sleeper, And when they 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!"