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What power shall be the sinner's
stay? How shall he meet that dreadful
When, shrivelling like a parched
scroll, The flaming heavens together roll; When louder yet, and yet more
dread, Swells the high trump that wakes
With naked foot, and sackcloth vest, And arms infolded on his breast,
Did every pilgrim go; The standers-by might hear uneath, Footstep, or voice, or high-drawn
breath, Through all the lengthened row: No lordly look, nor martial stride, Gone was their glory, sunk their pride,
Forgotten their renown; Silent and slow, like ghosts, they glide To the high altar's hallowed side,
And there they knelt them down: Above the suppliant chieftains wave The banners of departed brave; Beneath the lettered stones were laid The ashes of their fathers dead; From many a garnished niche around, Stern saints and tortured martyrs
Oh! on that day, that wrathful
day, When man to judgment wakes from
clay, Be Tuou the trembling sinner's
stay, Though heaven and earth shall pass away!
FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY.
And whither would you lead me
then?" Quoth the Friar of orders gray; Aįd the ruffians twain replied again,
• By a dying woman to pray.
“I see,” he said, “ a lovely sight,
A sight bodes little harm, A lady as a lily bright,
With au infant on her arm.
And slow up the dim aisle afar,
In long procession came:
With the Redeemer's name, Above the prostrate pilgrim band The mitred Abbot stretched his hand,
And blessed them as they kneeled ; With holy cross he signed them all, And prayed they inight be sage in hall,
And fortunate in field. Then mass was sung, and prayers
were said, And solemn requiem for the dead; And bells tolled out their mighty peal, For the departed spirit's weal; And ever in the office close The hymn of intercession rose; And far the echoing aisles prolong The awful burden of the song, DIES IRÆ, DIES ILLA
SOLVET SÆCLUM IN FAVILLA; While the pealing organ ruung; Were it meet with sacred strain To close my lay, so light and vain, Thus the holy Fathers suing:
* Then do thine office, Friar gray,
And see thou shrive her free! Else shall the sprite that parts to
night, Fling all its guilt on thee.
“Let mass be said, and trentals read,
When thou'rt to convent gone, And bid the bell of St. Benedict
Toll out its deepest tone." The shrift is done, the Friar is gone,
Blindfolded as he came;Next morning all, in Littlecot Hall,
Were weeping for their dame. Wild Darrell is an altered man,
The village crones can tell; He looks pale as clay, and strives to
prav, If he hears the convent bell,
HYMN FOR THE DEAD.
That day of wrath, that dreadful day, When heaven and earth shall pass