THE MASS FOR THE DEAD.

A LEGEND OF MESSINA.

ALL day unflagging in his stall

Sat Hildebrand the priest, and heard Confessions made, and over all

He uttered the absolving word.

But as the light of garish day
Passed with the setting sun away,
A heaviness and languor stole
All unperceived upon his soul.

Full off at the confided sin

The tender-hearted priest had wept ;

Now wearied, as the dusk set in,

He leaned him back and slept.

Nor woke he to the vesper bell,
Nor heard the organ's solemn swell,

And only turned upon his seat
At tramp of the retreating feet.

Heard not the verger's closing call,

Nor chiming of the transept clock, Heard not the doors together fall,

Nor noisy key turn'd in the lock.

And as the night hours glided by,
And Charles's wain wheeled in the sky,
Priest Hildebrand slept heavily.

Now first a spark, and then a flame,
Like an uplighted beacon, came;

And next a streak of silver light
That smote along the vaulted height,
As the moon in her last quarter

Rose out of the eastern water.

Sudden pealed the watchman's blast

When the noon of night was past,

And the echoes clung awhile

To the ribbing of the aisle.

Still did the slumb'ring pastor rest With grey head nodding on his breast.

And thus the night hours glided by, As Charles's Wain wheeled in the sky, And Hildebrand slept heavily.

The presses and misereres of oak
Warped and snapped; each noisy stroke
Of the minster clock, though clear,
Unheeded fell upon the ear.

A sea-breeze rose, and idly strayed
Over the window glass, and played
Faint pipings where it found a rent,
Or sung about the battlement.

A click-a rush of whirring wheels,
The hammer of the old clock reels,
And strikes one stroke upon the gong,
With long-drawn after undersong.

Then, suddenly, the sleep-bands broke,
And Hildebrand the priest awoke,

And conscious instantly, he gave

One stride, and found him in the nave.
Then started, with a sense of awe,
As he the whole interior saw

With light illum'd, but wan and faint,
By which each shrine and sculptured saint,
Each marble shaft and fretted niche,
The moulded arch, the tracery rich,
The brazen eagle in the choir,

The bishop's throne with gilded spire,
Stood out as clear as on a day

When clouds obscure the solar ray.
The altar tapers were alight,
Chalice and paten glimmered bright,
The service book was opened wide,
Wafers and cruets were at one side,
And, on the rail, in meet array,
Alb, amice, stole and vestment lay.
And one knelt on the altar stair
As server, hushed, immersed in prayer,
In convent garb, and with feet bare.

Now with a shrinking and surprise,
And scarcely crediting his eyes,

The priest discerned the whitened bone
Of feet, where skin and flesh was none.

With quivering knees, and throbbing blood, And chattering teeth, the roused man stood; Whilst each vibration of the clock

Beat on his pulse with liveliest shock.

Up rose the monk—and his bones ground
As he arose and turned him round,
And spread abroad his wasted hands,
As doth the celebrant who stands,
And makes the dread adorèd sign,
To close the mysteries divine.

Sudden a voice the silence broke,
With words articulate, and spoke

From underneath the drooping cowl.
As clear as ring of sanctus bell,
Hildebrand heard each syllable:

'Who mass will offer for my soul?'