"THE NICHT ATWEEN THE SANCTS AN' SOULS"

The door of Heaven is on the latch To-night, and many a one is fain To go home for one night's watch With his love again. Oh, where the father and mother sit There's a drift of dead leaves at the door Like pitter-patter of little feet That come no more. Their thoughts are in the night and cold, Their tears are heavier than the clay, But who is this at the threshold So young and gay? They are come from the land o' the young, They have forgotten how to weep; Words of comfort on the tongue, And a kiss to keep. They sit down and they stay awhile, Kisses and comfort none shall lack; At morn they steal forth with a smile And a long look back.

Oh, when the ghosts go by, Under the empty trees, Here in my house I sit and cry, My head upon my knees! Innumerable, white, Like mist they fill the square; The bolt is drawn, the latch made tight, The shutter barréd there. There walks one small and glad, New to the churchyard clod; My little lad, my little lad, A single year with God! I sit and hide my head Until they all are past, Under the empty trees the dead That go full soft and fast. Up to my chamber dim, Back to my bed I plod; Oh, would I were a ghost with him, And faring back to God!

I heard the dogs howl in the moonlight night; I went to the window to see the sight; All the dead that ever I knew Going one by one and two by two. On they pass'd and on they pass'd; Townsfellows all, from first to last; Born in the moonlight of the lane, Quench'd in the heavy shadow again. Schoolmates, marching as when they play'd At soldiers once—but now more staid; Those were the strangest sight to me Who were drown'd, I knew, in the open sea. Straight and handsome folk, bent and weak, too; Some that I loved, and gasp'd to speak to; Some but a day in their churchyard bed; Some that I had not known were dead. A long long crowd—where each seem'd lonely, Yet of them all there was one, one only, Raised a head or looked my way; She linger'd a moment—she might not stay. How long since I saw that fair pale face! Ah! Mother dear! might I only place My head on thy breast, a moment to rest, While thy hand on my tearful cheek were press'd! On, on, a moving bridge they made Across the moon-stream, from shade to shade, Young and old, women and men; Many long-forgot, but remember'd then, And first there came a bitter laughter; A sound of tears a moment after, And then a music so lofty and gay, That every morning, day by day, I strive to recall it if I may.

At first cock-crow The ghosts must go Back to their quiet graves below. Against the distant striking of the clock I heard the crowing cock, And I arose and threw the window wide; Long, long before the setting of the moon, And yet I knew they must be passing soon— My neighbors who had died— Back to their narrow green-roofed homes that wait Beyond the churchyard gate. I leaned far out and waited—all the world Was like a thing impearled, Mysterious and beautiful and still: The crooked road seemed one the moon might lay, Our little village slept in Quaker gray, And gray and tall the poplars on the hill; And then far off I heard the cock—and then My neighbors passed again. At first it seemed a white cloud, nothing more, Slow drifting by my door, Or gardened lilies swaying in the wind; Then suddenly each separate face I knew, The tender lovers drifting two and two, Old, peaceful folk long since passed out of mind, And little children—one whose hand held still An earth-grown daffodil. And here I saw one pausing for a space To lift a wistful face Up to a certain window where there dreamed A little brood left motherless; and there One turned to where the unploughed fields lay bare; And others lingering passed—but one there seemed So over glad to haste, she scarce could wait To reach the churchyard gate! The farrier's little maid who loved too well And died—I may not tell How glad she seemed. My neighbors, young and old, With backward glances lingered as they went; Only upon one face was all content, A sorrow comforted—a peace untold. I watched them through the swinging gate—the dawn Stayed till the last had gone.

All night the wild wind on the heath Whistled its song of vague alarms; All night in some mad dance of death The poplars tossed their naked arms. Mignon Isa hath left her bed And bared her shoulders to the blast; The long procession of the dead Stared at her as it passed. "Oh, there, methinks, my mother smiled, And there my father walks forlorn, And there the little nameless child That was the parish scorn. "And there my olden comrades move, And there my sister smiles apart, But nowhere is the fair, false love That bent and broke my heart. "Oh, false in life, oh, false in death, Wherever thy mad spirit be, Could it not come this night," she saith, "And keep tryst with me?" Mignon Isa has turned alone, Bitter the pain and long the years; The moonlight on the old gravestone Was warmer than her tears. All night the wild wind on the heath Whistled its song of vague alarms; All night in some mad dance of death The poplars tossed their naked arms.

'Twas I that cried against the pane on All Souls' Night (O pulse of my heart's life, how could you never hear?) You filled the room I knew with yellow candlelight And cheered the lass beside you when she cried in fear. 'Twas I that went beside you in the gray wood-mist (O core of my heart's heart, how could you never know?) You only frowned and shuddered as you bent and kissed The lass hard by you, handfast, as I used to go. 'Twas I that stood to greet you on the churchyard pave (O fire of my heart's grief, how could you never see?) You smiled in careless dreaming as you crossed my grave And hummed a little love-song where they buried me!

O mother, mother, I swept the hearth, I set his chair and the white board spread, I prayed for his coming to our kind Lady when Death's doors would let out the dead; A strange wind rattled the window-pane, and down the lane a dog howled on, I called his name and the candle flame burnt dim, pressed a hand the door-latch upon. Deelish! Deelish! my woe forever that I could not sever coward flesh from fear. I called his name and the pale ghost came; but I was afraid to meet my dear. O mother, mother, in tears I checked the sad hours past of the year that's o'er, Till by God's grace I might see his face and hear the sound of his voice once more; The chair I set from the cold and wet, he took when he came from unknown skies Of the land of the dead, on my bent brown head I felt the reproach of his saddened eyes; I closed my lids on my heart's desire, crouched by the fire, my voice was dumb. At my clean-swept hearth he had no mirth, and at my table he broke no crumb. Deelish! Deelish! my woe forever that I could not sever coward flesh from fear. His chair put aside when the young cock cried, and I was afraid to meet my dear.

"Sweep up the flure, Janet, Put on anither peat. It's a lown and starry nicht, Janet, And neither cold nor weet. And it's open hoose we keep the nicht For ony that may be oot; It's the nicht atween the Sancts an' Souls Whan the bodiless gang aboot. Set the chairs back to the wall, Janet, Mak' ready for quaiet fowk, Hae a' thing as clean as a windin'-sheet— They comena ilka ook. There's a spale upo' the flure, Janet, And there's a rowan berry. Sweep them into the fire, Janet,— They'll be welcomer than merry. Syne set open the door, Janet,— Wide open for wha kens wha: As ye come to your bed, Janet, Set it open to the wa'." She set the chairs back to the wa', But ane made of the birk, She swept the flure, but left ane spale, A long spale o' the aik. The nicht was lown, and the stars sat still A-glintin' doon the sky: And the sauls crept oot o' their mooly graves, A' dank wi' lyin' by. When midnight came the mither rase— She wad gae see an' hear. Back she cam' wi' a glowrin' face, An' sloomin' wi' verra fear. "There's ane o' them sittin' afore the fire! Janet, gae na to see; Ye left a chair afore the fire, Whaur I tauld ye nae chair sud be." Janet she smiled in her mither's face: She had brunt the roddin reid: And she left aneath the birken chair The spale frae a coffin lid. She rase and she gaed but the hoose, Aye steekin' door and door, Three hours gaed by ere her mother heard Her fit upo' the flure. But whan the grey cock crew she heard The soun' o' shoeless feet, Whan the red cock crew she heard the door An' a sough o' wind an' weet. An' Janet cam' back wi' a wan face, But never a word said she; No man ever heard her voice lood oot— It cam' like frae ower the sea. And no man ever heard her lauch, Nor yet say alas nor wae; But a smile aye glimmert on her wan face Like the moonlicht on the sea. And ilka nicht 'twixt the Sancts an' Souls Wide open she set the door; And she mendit the fire, and she left ae chair And that spale upo' the flure. And at midnicht she gaed but the hoose, Aye steekin' door and door. Whan the red cock crew she cam' ben the hoose, Aye wanner than before. Wanner her face and sweeter her smile, Till the seventh All-Souls Eve Her mither she heard the shoeless feet, Says "She's comin', I believe." But she camna ben, an' her mither lay; For fear she cudna stan', But up she rase an' ben she gaed Whan the gowden cock hed crawn. And Janet sat upo' the chair, White as the day did daw, Her smile was as sunlight left on the sea Whan the sun has gane awa.

The girls are laughing with the boys, and gaming by the fire, They're wishful, every one of them, to see her heart's desire, Twas Thesie cut the barnbrack and found the ring inside, Before next Hallows' E'en has dawned herself will be a bride. But little Mollie stands alone outside the cabin door, And breaks her heart for one the waves threw dead upon the shore. Twas Katie's nut lepped from the hearth, and left poor Pat's alone But Ellen's stayed by Christy Byrne's upon the wide hearthstone. An' all the while the childher bobbed for apples set afloat, The old men smoked their pipes and talked about the foundered boat, But Mollie walked upon the cliff, and never feared the rain; She called the name of one she loved and bid him come again. Young Peter pulled the cabbage-stump to win a wealthy wife, Rosanna threw the apple-peel to know who'd share her life; And Lizzie had a looking-glass she'd hid in some dark place To try if there, foreninst her own, she'd see her comrade's face. But Mollie walked along the quay where Terry's feet had trod, And sobbed her grief out in the night, with no one near but God. She heard the laughter from the house, she heard the fiddle played; She called her dead love to her side—why should she be afraid? She took his cold hands in her own, she had no thought of dread, And not a star looked out to watch the living kiss the dead. The lads are gaming with the girls, and laughing by the fire. But Mollie in the cold, dark night, has found her heart's desire.

(On All Souls' Night the dead walk on Kingston Bridge.—Old Legend.) On Kingston Bridge the starlight shone Through hurrying mists in shrouded glow; The boding night-wind made its moan, The mighty river crept below. 'Twas All Souls' Night, and to and fro The quick and dead together walked, The quick and dead together talked, On Kingston Bridge. Two met who had not met for years; Once was their hate too deep for fears: One drew his rapier as he came, Upleapt his anger like a flame. With clash of mail he faced his foe, And bade him stand and meet him so. He felt a graveyard wind go by Cold, cold as was his enemy. A stony horror held him fast. The Dead looked with a ghastly stare, And sighed "I know thee not," and passed Like to the mist, and left him there On Kingston Bridge. 'Twas All Souls' Night, and to and fro The quick and dead together walked, The quick and dead together talked, On Kingston Bridge. Two met who had not met for years: With grief that was too deep for tears They parted last. He clasped her hand, and in her eyes He sought Love's rapturous surprise. "Oh, Sweet!" he cried, "hast thou come back To say thou lov'st thy lover still?" —Into the starlight, pale and cold, She gazed afar—her hand was chill: "Dost thou remember how we kept Our ardent vigils?—how we kissed?— Take thou these kisses as of old!" An icy wind about him swept; "I know thee not," she sighed, and passed Into the dim and shrouding mist On Kingston Bridge. 'Twas All Souls' Night, and to and fro The quick and dead together walked, The quick and dead together talked, On Kingston Bridge.

Canice the priest went out on the Night of Souls; "Stay, oh stay," said the woman who served his board "Stay, for the path is strait with pits and holes, And the night is dark and the way is lone abroad; Stay within because it is lone, at least." "Nay, it will not be lone," said Canice the priest. Dim without, and a dim, low-sweeping sky; A scent of earth in the night, of opened mould; A listening pause in the night—and a breath passed by— And its touch was cold, was cold as the graves are cold Canice went on to the waste where no men be; "Nay, I will not be lone to-night," said he. Shades that flit, besides the shades of the night; Rustling sobs besides the sobs of the wind; Steps of feet that pace with his on the right, Steps that pace on the left, and steps behind. "Nay, no fear that I shall be lone, at least! Lo, there are throngs abroad," said Canice the priest. Deathly hands that pluck at his cassock's hem; Sighings of earthly breath that smite his cheek; Canice the priest swings on, atune with them, Hears the throbbings of pain, and hears them speak; Hears the word they utter, and answers "Yea! Yea, poor souls, for I heed; I pray, I pray." Lo, a gleam of gray, and the dark is done; Hark, a bird that trills a song of the light. Canice hies him home by the shine of the sun. What to-day of those pallid wraiths of the night? What of the woeful notes that had wailed and fled? "Maria, ora pro illis!" Canice said.