Founded on an Old French Legend

The fettered Spirits lingerIn purgatorial pain,With penal fires effacingTheir last faint earthly stain,Which Life's imperfect sorrowHad tried to cleanse in vain.

Yet on each feast of MaryTheir sorrow finds release,For the Great Archangel MichaelComes down and bids it cease;And the name of these brief respitesIs called "Our Lady's Peace."

Yet once--so runs the Legend--When the Archangel cameAnd all these holy spiritsRejoiced at Mary's name;One voice alone was wailing,Still wailing on the same.

And though a great Te DeumThe happy echoes woke,This one discordant wailingThrough the sweet voices broke;So when St. Michael questioned,Thus the poor spirit spoke:-

"I am not cold or thankless,Although I still complain;I prize our Lady's blessingAlthough it comes in vainTo still my bitter anguish,Or quench my ceaseless pain.

"On earth a heart that loved me,Still lives and mourns me there,And the shadow of his anguishIs more than I can bear;All the torment that I sufferIs the thought of his despair.

"The evening of my bridalDeath took my Life away;Not all Love's passionate pleadingCould gain an hour's delay.And he I left has sufferedA whole year since that day.

"If I could only see him,--If I could only goAnd speak one word of comfortAnd solace,--then, I knowHe would endure with patience,And strive against his woe."

Thus the Archangel answered:-"Your time of pain is brief,And soon the peace of HeavenWill give you full relief;Yet if his earthly comfortSo much outweighs your grief,

"Then, through a special mercyI offer you this grace,--You may seek him who mourns youAnd look upon his face,And speak to him of comfortFor one short minute's space.

"But when that time is ended,Return here, and remainA thousand years in torment,A thousand years in pain:Thus dearly must you purchaseThe comfort he will gain."

The Lime-trees' shade at eveningIs spreading broad and wide;Beneath their fragrant arches,Pace slowly, side by side,In low and tender converse,A Bridegroom and his Bride.

The night is calm and stilly,No other sound is thereExcept their happy voices:What is that cold bleak airThat passes through the Lime-treesAnd stirs the Bridegroom's hair?

While one low cry of anguish,Like the last dying wailOf some dumb, hunted creature,Is borne upon the gale:-Why does the Bridegroom shudderAnd turn so deathly pale?

Near Purgatory's entranceThe radiant Angels wait;It was the great St. MichaelWho closed that gloomy gate,When the poor wandering spiritCame back to meet her fate.

"Pass on," thus spoke the Angel:"Heaven's joy is deep and vast;Pass on, pass on, poor Spirit,For Heaven is yours at last;In that one minute's anguishYour thousand years have passed."