Let us pray for the dead! For our foes who have died, May they be justified! For the stranger whose eyes Closed on cold alien skies; For the sailors who perished By the frail arts they cherished; Let us pray for the unknown dead. Father in heaven, to Thee we turn, Transfer their debt to us; Oh! bid their souls no longer burn In mediate anguish thus. Let us pray for the soldiers, On whatever side slain; Whose white bones on the plain Lay unclaimed and unfathered, By the vortex-wind gathered, Let us pray for the valiant dead. Oh! pity the soldier, Kind Father in heaven, Whose body doth moulder Where his soul fled self-shriven. We have prayed for the dead; All the faithful departed, Who to Christ were true-hearted; And our prayers shall be heard, For so promised the Lord; And their spirits shall go Forth from limbo-like woe-- And joyfully swift the justified dead Shall feel their unbound pinions sped, Through the valley of purgatorial fire, To their heavenly home by the gate called Desire, By the gate called Desire, In clouds they've ascended-- O Saints, pray for us, Now your sorrows are ended! THE DE PROFUNDIS BELL. [1] [Footnote 1: Among the many beautiful and pious customs of Catholic countries, none appeals with more tender earnestness to the pitying heart than that of the _De Profundis_ bell. While the shades of night are gathering over the earth, a solemn, dirge like tolling resounds from the lofty church towers. Instantly every knee is bent, and countless voices, in city and hamlet, from castle and cottage, repeat, with heartfelt earnestness, the beautiful psalm, "_De Profundis_," or, "Out of the depths," etc., for the souls of the faithful departed. Thus is illustrated, in a most touching manner, the blessed doctrine of the Communion of Saints. Thus does the Church Militant clasp, each day anew, the holy tie which binds her to the suffering Church of Purgation. The compassionate heart of the Christian is stirred to its inmost depths by the plaintive call of that warning bell; and as, in the holy hush of nightfall, he obeys its tender appeal, how fully does he realize that "it is a holy and wholesome thought to pray for the dead."] HARRIET M. SKIDMORE. The day was dead; from purple summits faded Its last resplendent ray, And softly slept the wearied earth, o'ershaded By twilight's dreamy gray; Then flowed deep sound-waves o'er silence holy Of nature's calm repose, As from its lofty dome, outpealing slowly Through the still gloaming, rose The deep and dirge-like swell Of _De Profundis_ bell.