Mid homes eternal of the blessed

Erewhile beheld in trance of prayer,

A secret wish the saint possessed

To see the regions of despair.

The Power in whose omniscient ken

The thoughts of every heart abide

Sent him to those lost souls of men,

A splendid spirit for his guide—

Michael, the warrior, the prince

Of those before the throne who dwell,

The brightest of archangels since,

Eclipsed, the son of morning fell.

Down through the voids of light they sped

Till Heaven's anthems faintly rung

Through darkening space, and overhead

Earth's planets dim and dwindled hung.

Still downward into lurid gloom

The saint and angel took their way,

Moving within a clear cool room,

The light benign of heavenly day.

The wretched thronged on every side.

"Have mercy on us, radiant twain!

O Paul! beloved of God!" they cried,

"Pray Heaven for surcease of our pain."

"Weep, weep, unhappy ones, bewail!

We too our prayers and tears will lend:

Our supplication may prevail,

And haply God some respite send."

Then upward from the lost there swept

Entreaty multitudinous,

As every wave of ocean wept:

"O Christ! have mercy upon us!"

And as their clamor rose on high

Beyond the pathway of the sun,

Heav'n's happy legions joined the cry,

Their voices melting into one.

The saint, up-gazing through the dew

Of pity brimming o'er his eyes,

Discerned in Heav'n's remotest blue

The Son of God lean from the skies.

Then through their agonies were heard

The tones which still'd the angry sea,

The voice of the Eternal Word:

"And do ye ask repose of me?

"Me whom ye pierced with curse and jeer,

Whose mortal thirst ye quenched with gall?

I died for your immortal cheer:

What profit have I of you all?

"Liars, traducers, proud in thought,

Misers! no offering of psalms

Or prayer or thanks ye ever brought—

No deed of penitence or alms."

Michael and Paul at that dread speech,

With all the myriads of Heaven,

Fell on their faces to beseech

Peace for the lost one day in seven.

The Son of God, who hearkens prayer,

In mercy to those souls forlorn

Bade that their torments should forbear

From Sabbath eve to Monday morn.

The torments swarmed forth at the gate—

Hell's solemn guardians let them pass:

Those awful cherubim who wait

All sorrowful surveyed the mass.

But from the lost a single cry,

Which rang rejoicing through the spheres:

"O blessed Son of God most high!

Two nights, a day, no pain or tears?"

"O Son of God, for ever blessed!

Praise and give thanks, all spirits sad:

A day, two nights of perfect rest?

So much on earth we never had!"