Дора Сигерсон Шортер (Dora Sigerson Shorter)

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 uncoffinèd,
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.

“Most Just and Merciful, set free
From Purgatory’s awful night
This sinner’s soul, to fly to Thee,
And rest for ever in Thy sight.”

The Mass is over—still the clerk
Kneels pallid in the morning glow.
He said, “From evils of the dark
Oh, bless me, father, ere you go.

“Benediction, that I may rest,
For all night did the Banshee weep.”
The priest raised up his hands and blest—
“Go now, my child, and you will sleep.”

The priest went down the vestry stair,
He laid his vestments in their place,
And turned—a pale ghost met him there,
With beads of pain upon his face.

“Brother,” he said, “you have gained me peace,
But why so long did you know my tears,
And say no Mass for my soul’s release,
To save the torture of all those years?”

“God rest you, brother,” the good priest said,
“No years have passed—but a single night.”
He showed the body uncoffinèd,
And the six wax candles still alight.

The living flowers on the dead man’s breast
Blew out a perfume sweet and strong.
The spirit paused ere he passed to rest—
“God save your soul from a night so long.”

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