THE PRIEST'S BROTHER
Thrice in the night the priest arose
From broken sleep to kneel and pray.
“Hush, poor ghost, till the red cock crows,
And I a Mass for your soul may say.”
Thrice he went to the chamber cold,
Where, stiff and still uncoffined,
His brother lay, his beads he told,
And “Rest, poor spirit, rest,” he said.
Thrice lay the old priest down to sleep
Before the morning bell should toll;
But still he heard—and woke to weep—
The crying of his brother's soul.
All through the dark, till dawn was pale,
The priest tossed in his misery,
With muffled ears to hide the wail.
The voice of that ghost's agony.
At last the red cock flaps his wings
To trumpet of a day new-born.
The lark, awaking, soaring sings
Into the bosom of the morn.
The priest before the altar stands,
He hears the spirit call for peace;
He beats his breast with shaking hands.
“O Father, grant this soul's release.
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