Mute as statue, on each knoll Stood a thin, transparent soul, While the fresh breeze stole From its long night's rest, Till it bore upon its tongue, Like a snatch of sacred song, All the peopled graves among, _Ite Missa est!_ Then a cry, as Angels raise In an ecstasy of praise, When the Godhead's glowing rays To their eager sight is given, Shook the consecrated ground, And the souls it lost were found From their venial sins unbound, In the happy fields of heaven! Where the tombstones gray and browned, And the broken roods around, And the vespers' solemn sound, Told an old church near; I sat me in the eve, And I let my fancy weave Such a vision as I leave With a frail pen here. ELEVENTH MONTH, NOVEMBER: THE HOLY SOULS. COMMEMORATION OF ALL SOULS. HARRIET M. SKIDMORE. O faithful church! O tender mother-heart, That, 'neath the shelter of thy deathless love, Shieldest the blood-bought charge thy Master gave; Laving the calm, unfurrowed infant brow With the pure wealth of Heaven's cleansing stream; Breathing above the sinner's grief-bowed head The mystic words that loose the demon-spell, And bid the leprous soul be clean again; Decking the upper chamber of the heart For the blest banquet of the Lord of love; Binding upon the youthful warrior's breast The buckler bright, the sacred shield of strength, The fair, celestial gift of Pentecost, Borne on the pinions of the holy Dove! And when, at last, life's sunset hour is near, And the worn pilgrim-feet stand trembling on The shadowy borders of the death-dark vale, At thy command the priestly hand bestows The potent unction in the saving Name, And gives unto the parched and pallid lip The blest Viaticum, the Bread of Life, As staff and stay for that drear pilgrimage! Thy prayers ascend, with magic incense-breath, From the lone couch, where, fainting by the way, The frail companion of the deathless soul Parteth in pain from its immortal guest. And when, at last, the golden chain is loosed, And through the shadows of that mystic vale The ransomed captive floateth swiftly forth, In solemn tones thy _De Profundis_ rings O'er all the realms of vast eternity; Thy tender litanies call gently down The angel-guides, the white-robed band of Saints, To lead the wanderer to "the great White Throne," To plead, with Heaven's own pitying tenderness, For life and mercy at the judgment-seat. The account is given, the saving sentence breathed, Yet He who said that nought by sin defiled Can take at once its blessed place amid The spotless legion of His shining Saints, Will find, upon the white baptismal robe, Full many a blemish; stains too lightly held, Half-cleansed by an imperfect sorrow's flood. "The Christian shall be saved, yet as by fire;" So, to the pain-fraught, purifying flame The robe is given, till every blighting spot