Part 28

Ah! days so dark with death's eclipse! Woe are we! woe are we! And the nights are ages long! From breaking hearts, thro' pallid lips O my God! woe are we! Trembleth the mourner's song; A blight is falling on the fair, And hope is dying in despair, And terror walketh everywhere.

All the hours are full of tears -- O my God! woe are we! Grief keeps watch in brightest eyes -- Every heart is strung with fears, Woe are we! woe are we! All the light hath left the skies, And the living awe struck crowds See above them only clouds, And around them only shrouds.

Ah! the terrible farewells! Woe are they! woe are they! When last words sink into moans, While life's trembling vesper bells -- O my God! woe are we! Ring the awful undertones! Not a sun in any day! In the night-time not a ray, And the dying pass away!

Dark! so dark! above -- below -- O my God! woe are we! Cowereth every human life. Wild the wailing; to and fro! Woe are all! woe are we! Death is victor in the strife: In the hut and in the hall He is writing on the wall Dooms for many -- fears for all.

Thro' the cities burns a breath, Woe are they! woe are we! Hot with dread and deadly wrath; Life and love lock arms in death, Woe are they! woe are all! Victims strew the spectre's path; Shy-eyed children softly creep Where their mothers wail and weep -- In the grave their fathers sleep.

Mothers waft their prayers on high, O my God! woe are we! With their dead child on their breast. And the altars ask the sky -- O my Christ! woe are we! "Give the dead, O Father, rest! Spare thy people! mercy! spare!" Answer will not come to prayer -- Horror moveth everywhere.

And the temples miss the priest -- O my God! woe are we! And the cradle mourns the child. Husband at your bridal feast -- Woe are you! woe are you! Think how those poor dead eyes smiled; They will never smile again -- Every tie is cut in twain, All the strength of love is vain.

Weep? but tears are weak as foam -- Woe are ye! woe are we! They but break upon the shore Winding between here and home -- Woe are ye! woe are we! Wailing never! nevermore! Ah! the dead! they are so lone, Just a grave, and just a stone, And the memory of a moan.

Pray! yes, pray! for God is sweet -- O my God! woe are we! Tears will trickle into prayers When we kneel down at His feet -- Woe are we! woe are we! With our crosses and our cares. He will calm the tortured breast, He will give the troubled rest -- And the dead He watcheth best.

When? (Death)

Some day in Spring, When earth is fair and glad, And sweet birds sing, And fewest hearts are sad -- Shall I die then? Ah! me, no matter when; I know it will be sweet To leave the homes of men And rest beneath the sod, To kneel and kiss Thy feet In Thy home, O my God!

Some Summer morn Of splendors and of songs, When roses hide the thorn And smile -- the spirit's wrongs -- Shall I die then? Ah! me, no matter when; I know I will rejoice To leave the haunts of men And lie beneath the sod, To hear Thy tender voice In Thy home, O my God!

Some Autumn eve, When chill clouds drape the sky, When bright things grieve Because all fair things die -- Shall I die then? Ah! me, no matter when, I know I shall be glad, Away from the homes of men, Adown beneath the sod, My heart will not be sad In Thy home, O my God!

Some Wintry day, When all skies wear a gloom, And beauteous May Sleeps in December's tomb, Shall I die then? Ah! me, no matter when; My soul shall throb with joy To leave the haunts of men And sleep beneath the sod. Ah! there is no alloy In Thy joys, O my God!

Haste, death! be fleet; I know it will be sweet To rest beneath the sod, To kneel and kiss Thy feet In heaven, O my God!

The Conquered Banner

Furl that Banner, for 'tis weary; Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary; Furl it, fold it, it is best; For there's not a man to wave it, And there's not a sword to save it, And there's not one left to lave it In the blood which heroes gave it; And its foes now scorn and brave it; Furl it, hide it -- let it rest!

Take that Banner down! 'tis tattered; Broken is its staff and shattered; And the valiant hosts are scattered Over whom it floated high. Oh! 'tis hard for us to fold it; Hard to think there's none to hold it; Hard that those who once unrolled it Now must furl it with a sigh.

Furl that Banner! furl it sadly! Once ten thousands hailed it gladly, And ten thousands wildly, madly, Swore it should forever wave; Swore that foeman's sword should never Hearts like theirs entwined dissever, Till that flag should float forever O'er their freedom or their grave!

Furl it! for the hands that grasped it, And the hearts that fondly clasped it, Cold and dead are lying low; And that Banner -- it is trailing! While around it sounds the wailing Of its people in their woe.

For, though conquered, they adore it! Love the cold, dead hands that bore it! Weep for those who fell before it! Pardon those who trailed and tore it! But, oh! wildly they deplore it, Now who furl and fold it so.

Furl that Banner! True, 'tis gory, Yet 'tis wreathed around with glory, And 'twill live in song and story, Though its folds are in the dust: For its fame on brightest pages, Penned by poets and by sages, Shall go sounding down the ages -- Furl its folds though now we must.

Furl that Banner, softly, slowly! Treat it gently -- it is holy -- For it droops above the dead. Touch it not -- unfold it never, Let it droop there, furled forever, For its people's hopes are dead!

A Christmas Chant

They ask me to sing them a Christmas song That with musical mirth shall ring; How know I that the world's great throng Will care for the words I sing?

Let the young and the gay chant the Christmas lay, Their voices and hearts are glad; But I -- I am old, and my locks are gray, And they tell me my voice is sad.

Ah! once I could sing, when my heart beat warm With hopes, bright as life's first spring; But the spring hath fled, and the golden charm Hath gone from the songs I sing.

I have lost the spell that my verse could weave O'er the souls of the old and young, And never again -- how it makes me grieve -- Shall I sing as once I sung.