When the dim hours of the Day are waning,

And the voices of midnight

Wake the weary soul, which long and thorough slept,

To a Sacred, calm delight;

As, the bedside lamps are flicked to life,

And, like Spectres, menacing and high,

Shadows from the fitful yellow light

Dance across the ceiling low and dry;

Then the ranks of the remembered and dear departed

Enter at a vacant door;

The beloved, the pure-hearted,

Come to visit the Living once more;

He, the youthful and sturdy Marine, who cherished

Patriotic pinings for the gory strife,

By some Godless hand, was laid low and perished,

Tired at the cadenced march of Life!

They, the Holy Ones and sickly,

Who the broad Cross of Persecution dutifully bore,

Folded their sinewy hands, so meekly,

Spoke with us on this Third Stone from the Sun no more!

And, with them, the Holy Queen Enthroned Above,

Who, in my Youth, I was given,

More than all of this World else to Love me,

And is now a Saint in Heaven.

With the slow and silent tread of these Multitudes,

Comes that Messenger-Mother Divine,

Takes the arm-chair beside me,

Lays Her gentle hand in mine.

And She sits solemn and gazes into me

With those deep and tender eyes,

Like the stars, so still and Holy,

Looking downward from the endless skies.

Spoken not, yet understood,

Is the Spirit's voiceless Prayer,

Soft Signs and Blessings ended,

Breathing from Her lips of empty air.

Oh, though often Depressed and lonely,

All my Mortal Fears are but laid aside,

If I remember only

Beings as Great as these have Lived and Died!