Think of that prison of anguish and pain, Where even the souls of the Saints remain, Till cleansed by fire from the slightest stain. Think of the souls who were dear to you When this life held them; still be true, And pray for them now; it is all you can do. Think of the souls who are lonely there, With no one, perchance, to offer a prayer That God may have pity on them and spare. Think of the souls that have longest lain In that place of exile and of pain, Suffering still for some uncleansed stain. Think of the souls who, perchance, may be On the very threshold of liberty-- One "_Ave Maria_" may set them free! Oh, then, at the close of each passing day, When your work is finished and folded away, Think of the suffering souls, and pray! Think of their prison, so dark and dim, Think of their longing to be with Him Whose praises are sung by the cherubim! As you tell the beads of your Rosary, Ask God's sweet Mother their mother to be; Her immaculate hands hold Heaven's key. Oh, how many souls are suffering when You whisper "Hail Mary" again and again, May see God's face as you say "_Amen!_" --_Ave Maria_, November 24, 1883. THE VOICES OF THE DEAD. 'Twas the hour after sunset, And the golden light had paled; The heavy foliage of the woods Were all in shadow veiled. Yet a witchery breathed through the soft twilight, A thought of the sun that was set, And a soft and mystic radiance Through the heavens hung lingering yet. The purple hills stood clear and dark Against the western sky, And the wind came sweeping o'er the grass With a wild and mournful cry: It swept among the grass that grows Above the quiet grave, And stirred the boughs of the linden-trees That o'er the church-yard wave. And the low murmur of the leaves All softly seemed to say, "It is a good and wholesome thought For the dead in Christ to pray." Earth's voices all are low and dim; But a human heart is there, With psalms and words of holy Church, To join in Nature's prayer. A Monk is pacing up and down; His prayers like incense rise; Ever a sweet, sad charm for him Within that church-yard lies. Each morning when from Mary's tower The sweet-toned _Ave_ rings, This herdsman of the holy dead A Mass of Requiem sings. And when upon the earth there falls The hush of eventide, A dirge he murmurs o'er the graves Where they slumber side by side. "Eternal light shine o'er them, Lord! And may they rest in peace!" His matins all are finished now, And his whispered accents cease. But, hark! what sound is that which breaks The stillness of the hour? Is it the ivy as it creeps Against the gray church tower?