Hath faded from its primal purity; Still, faithful Church, thy blest Communion binds Each suffering child unto thy mother's heart. Full well thou know'st the wondrous power of prayer-- That 'tis a holy and a wholesome thought To plead for those who in the drear abode Of penance linger, "that they may be loosed From all their sins;" that on each spotless brow Love's shining hand may place the starry crown. And so the holy Sacrifice ascends, A sweet oblation for that wailing band Thy regal form in mourning hues is draped, Thy pleading _Miserere_ ceaseth not Till, at its blest entreaty, Love descends, As erst, from His rent tomb, to Limbo's realm, And leads again the freed, exultant throng, Within the gleaming gates of gold and pearl, To bask in fadeless splendor, where the flow Of the "still waters" by the "pastures green" Faints not, nor slackens, through the endless years. O Christians, brethren by that holy tie That links the living with the ransomed dead! Children of one fond mother are ye all, White-robed in heaven, militant on earth, And sufferers 'mid the purifying flame. O ye who tread the highway of our world, Join now your voices with that mother's sigh! And while the mournful autumn wind laments, And sad November's ceaseless tear-drops fall Upon "the Silent City's" marble roofs, O'er lonely graves amid the pathless wild, Or where the wayworn pilgrim sank to rest In some lone cavern by the crested sea-- List to the pleading wail that e'er ascends From the dark land of suffering and woe: "Our footsteps trod your fair, sun-lighted paths, Our voices mingled in your joyous songs, Our tears were blended in one common grief; Perchance our erring hearts' excessive love For you, the worshipped idols of our lives, Hath been the blemish on our bridal robes. Plead for us, then, and let your potent prayer Unlock the golden gates, that we who beat Our eager wings against these prison bars, May wing our flight to endless liberty!" THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD. FATHER FABER [This poem scarcely comes within the scope of the present work, yet it is, by its nature, so closely connected therewith, and is, moreover, so exquisitely tender and pathetic, so beautiful in its mournful simplicity, that I decided on giving it a place amongst these funereal fragments.] Oh! it is sweet to think Of those that are departed, While murmured Aves sink To silence tender-hearted-- While tears that have no pain Are tranquilly distilling, And the dead live again In hearts that love is filling. Yet not as in the days Of earthly ties we love them; For they are touched with rays From light that is above them; Another sweetness shines Around their well-known features; God with His glory signs His dearly-ransomed creatures.