For all the souls that went astray In deserts hung with double gloom; For all the dead without a tomb- O brothers, pray! For we have household peace; but they Who led the way, and held the land, Are homeless as the heaving sand- Oh! let us pray! THE DEAD. (From the French of Octave Cremacie.) ANNA T. SADLIER. O dead, ye sleep within your tranquil graves; No more ye bear the burden that enslaves Us in this world of ours. For you outshine no stars, no storms rave loud, No buds has spring, the horizon no cloud, The sun marks not the hours. The while, with anxious thought oppress'd, we go, Each weary day but bringing deeper woe, Silently and alone Ye list the sanctuary chant arise, That downwards first to you, remounts the skies, Sweet pity's monotone. The vain delights whereto our souls incline, Are naught beside the prayer to love divine, Alms-giving of the heart, Which reaching to you warms your chilly dust And brings your name enshrined a sacred trust, Swift to the throne of God! Alas! love's warmest memory will fade Within the heart, ere yet the mourning shade Has ceased to mark the garb. Forgetfulness, our meed to you, outweighs The leaded coffin as it dully lays Upon your lifeless bones. Our selfish hearts but to the present look, And see in you the pages of a book Now laid aside long read. For loving in our fev'rish joy or pain But those who serve our hate, pride, love of gain, No more can serve the dead. To cold ambition or to joy's sweet store, Ye dusty corpses minister no more, We give to you neglect. Nor reck we of that suff'ring world's pale bourne Where you beyond the bridgeless barrier mourn O'erpast the wall of death. 'Tis said that when our coldness grieves you sore, Ye quit betimes that solitude's cold shore Where ye forsaken dwell, And flit about in darkness' sad constraint, The while from spectral lips your mournful plaint Upon the winds outswell. When nightingales their woodland nests have left, The autumn sky of gray, white-capped, cloud-reft, Prepares the shroud which Winter soon shall spread On frozen fields; there comes a day thrice blest, When earth forgetting, all our musings rest On those who are no more the dreamless dead. The dead their graves forsake upon this day, As we have seen doves mount with joyous grace, Escape an instant from their prison drear, Their coming brings us no repellent fear. Their mien is dreamy, passing sweet their face, Their fixed and hollow eyes cannot betray. When spectral coming thus unseen they gaze On crowds who, kneeling in the temple, pray Forgiveness for them, one faint, joyful ray, As light upon the opal, glittering plays, On faces pale and calm an instant rests, And brings a moment's warmth to clay-cold breasts. They, the elect of God, with souls of saints, Who bear each destined load without complaints,