[As the translation is a very rude one, we add the French original, which, particularly when set to music, is full of a deep solemnity and pathos.] CHANT FUNÈBRE. NISARD La cloche tinte pour les morts Chrétiens, mettons nous en prières! Ceux qi gemissent sont des frères, Se consumant en vains efforts. Pitié pour eux! Pitié pour eux! Ils tourbillonnent dans la flamme; Les taches qui souillent leur âmes, Les tiennent captifs loin des cieux. Mettons un terme à leur douleurs, Dieu nous en donne la puissance; Ne trompons point leur espérance, Puis ils seront nos protecteurs. Disons pour nos fières souffrants: Sauveur Jésus, Sainte Victime, Tirez nos frères de l'abime, Car, eux aussi, sont vos enfants. REQUIESCAT IN PACE. HARRIET M. SKIDMORE O Father, give them rest-- Thy faithful ones, whose day of toil is o'er, Whose weary feet shall wander never more O'er earth's unquiet breast! The battle-strife was long; Yet, girt with grace, and guided by Thy light, They faltered not till triumph closed the fight, Till pealed the victor's song. Though drear the desert path, With cruel thorns and flinty fragments strewn, Where fiercely swept, amid the glare of noon. The plague-wind's biting wrath. Still onward pressed their feet; For patience soothed with sweet celestial balm, And, from the rocks, hope called her founts to calm The Simoom's venom-heat. Their march hath reached its close, Its toils are o'er, its Red Sea safely passed; And pilgrim feet have cast aside at last Earth's sandal-shoon of woes. Thou blissful promised land! One rapturous glimpse of matchless glory caught, One priceless vision, with thy beauty fraught, Hath blessed that way-worn band. And to thy smiling shore Their ceaseless messengers of longing went, And blooms of bliss and fruitage of content, Returning, gladly bore. Yet sadly still they wait; For, past idolatries to gods of clay, And past rebellions 'gainst the Master's sway, Have barred the golden gate. The magic voice of prayer, The saving rite, the sacrifice of love, The human tear, the sigh of Saints above, Blent in one off'ring fair-- These, these alone, can win The boon they crave: glad entrance into rest, The fadeless crown, the garment of the blest, Washed pure from stain of sin. Hear, then, our eager cry. O God of mercy! bid their anguish cease; To prisoned souls, ah! bring the glad release, And hush the mourner's sigh. Mother of pitying love! On sorrow's flood thy tender glances bend, And o'er its dark and dreadful torrent send The olive-bearing dove. Thy potent prayer shall be An arch of peace, a radiant promise-bow, To span the gulf, and shed its cheering glow O'er the dread penance-sea.