Low, simple stones and white watched o'er each grave, While in the hollows 'twixt them sweet flowers grew, Entwining grave with grave. He read the names Engraven on the stones, and "Rest in peace" Was written 'neath them all, and o'er each name A cross was graven on the lowly stone. He passed each grave with reverential awe, As if he passed an altar, where the Host Had left a memory of its sacrifice. And o'er the buried virgin's virgin dust He walked as prayerfully as though he trod The holy floor of fair Loretto's shrine. He passed from grave to grave, and read the names Of those whose own pure lips had changed the names By which this world had known them into names Of sacrifice known only to their God; Veiling their faces they had veiled their names. The very ones who played with them as girls, Had they passed there, would know no more than he, Or any stranger, where their playmates slept. And then he wondered all about their lives, their hearts, Their thoughts, their feelings, and their dreams, Their joys and sorrows, and their smiles and tears. He wondered at the stories that were hid Forever down within those simple graves. ONE HOUR AFTER DEATH. ELIZA ALLEN STARR. Oh! I could envy thee thy solemn sleep, Thy sealed lid, thy rosary-folding palm, Thy brow, scarce cold, whose wasted outlines keep The "_Bona Mors_" sublime, unfathomed calm. I sigh to wear myself that burial robe Anointed hands have blessed with pious care: What nuptial garb on all this mortal globe Could with thy habit's peaceful brown compare? Beneath its hallowed folds thy feeble dust Shall rest serenely through the night of time; Unharmed by worm, or damp, or century's rust, But, fresh as youth, shall greet th' eternal prime Of that clear morn, before whose faintest ray Earth's bliss will pale, a taper's flickering gleam; I see it break! the pure, celestial day, And stars of mortal hope already dim. "_In pace_" Lord, oh! let her sweetly rest In Paradise, this very day with Thee: Her faithful lips her dying Lord confessed, Then let her soul Thy risen glory see! A PRAYER FOR THE DEAD. T. D. MCGEE. Let us pray for the dead! For sister and mother, Father and brother, For clansman and fosterer, And all who have loved us here; For pastors, for neighbors, At rest from their labors; Let us pray for our own beloved dead! That their souls may be swiftly sped Through the valley of purgatorial fire, To a heavenly home by the gate called Desire! I see them cleave the awful air, Their dun wings fringed with flame; They hear, they hear our helping prayer, They call on Jesu's name.