 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
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THE GREAT MYSTERY.
CHORUS OF GREEK MAIDENS.
What is Death?
Whispered all in accents low,
When the days have lost their glow,
And the hours like flowers uprooted,
Now no longer rosy-footed,
Big with heavy burdens grow.
This is Death.
Whispered all in accents low,
When the days have lost their glow,
And the hours like flowers uprooted,
Now no longer rosy-footed,
Big with heavy burdens grow.
This is Death.
What is Death?
Muttered in unwilling ears,
With a trembling as of tears,
By the passing of the story
Of this gladsome summer glory,
By the coming in of fears.
This is Death.
Muttered in unwilling ears,
With a trembling as of tears,
By the passing of the story
Of this gladsome summer glory,
By the coming in of fears.
This is Death.
What is Death?
Murmured on the busy mart,
By a sickening of the heart,
In a rising up of terrors,
As the ghosts of all our errors,
When the actor drops his part.
This is Death.
Murmured on the busy mart,
By a sickening of the heart,
In a rising up of terrors,
As the ghosts of all our errors,
When the actor drops his part.
This is Death.
What is Death?
When the river, on its course,
Feels a sinking at the source,
Dimly desperately boded
By the hopeless spirit, goaded
With the gadfly of remorse.
This is death.
When the river, on its course,
Feels a sinking at the source,
Dimly desperately boded
By the hopeless spirit, goaded
With the gadfly of remorse.
This is death.
What is Death?
Ask it of the gods, whose spells
Once made splendid woods and wells,
Now departing with a weeping
From the shrines they had in keeping,
From the shadowed rocks and dells!
This is Death.
Ask it of the gods, whose spells
Once made splendid woods and wells,
Now departing with a weeping
From the shrines they had in keeping,
From the shadowed rocks and dells!
This is Death.
What is Death?
Darkness to be felt, that drapes
All the bright and beauteous shapes,
Wrought by fancy or by Nature,
Raised by Art to nobler stature,
Darkness from which none escapes.
This is Death.
Darkness to be felt, that drapes
All the bright and beauteous shapes,
Wrought by fancy or by Nature,
Raised by Art to nobler stature,
Darkness from which none escapes.
This is Death.
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What is Death?
See it, when the light is brief,
In the yellow falling leaf,
In the misting of the mountains,
In the poisoning of the fountains,
And the shadow on the sheaf.
This is Death.
See it, when the light is brief,
In the yellow falling leaf,
In the misting of the mountains,
In the poisoning of the fountains,
And the shadow on the sheaf.
This is Death.
What is Death?
Taste it, in the troubled hour
Of the sweetness rendered sour,
By the touch of frosty fingers
Laid upon the charm that lingers,
Loath to leave the Dryads' bower.
This is death.
Taste it, in the troubled hour
Of the sweetness rendered sour,
By the touch of frosty fingers
Laid upon the charm that lingers,
Loath to leave the Dryads' bower.
This is death.
What is Death?
Feel it in the drawing near
Of a presence dark and drear,
Over every bud and blossom,
Into even the throbbing bosom
Piercing, like a foeman's spear.
This is Death.
Feel it in the drawing near
Of a presence dark and drear,
Over every bud and blossom,
Into even the throbbing bosom
Piercing, like a foeman's spear.
This is Death.
What is Death?
Hear it, in the broken strain,
Like the sough of autumn rain,
In the wailing voice of sorrow,
Crying that there is no morrow
For the gathering of the grain
This is Death.
Hear it, in the broken strain,
Like the sough of autumn rain,
In the wailing voice of sorrow,
Crying that there is no morrow
For the gathering of the grain
This is Death.
What is Death?
In the breaking of the bond,
Long so tender and so fond,
When the sacred friendships sever,
That must part and part for ever
To the shades that loom beyond.
This is Death.
In the breaking of the bond,
Long so tender and so fond,
When the sacred friendships sever,
That must part and part for ever
To the shades that loom beyond.
This is Death.
What is Death?
It is only whispered here,
But the winter sad and sere
Finds its footprints, in the turning
Of the blooms with sunshine burning,
On the meadow, by the mere.
This is Death.
It is only whispered here,
But the winter sad and sere
Finds its footprints, in the turning
Of the blooms with sunshine burning,
On the meadow, by the mere.
This is Death.
What is Death?
Though we trick our rose, at will,
Trusting to avert the ill,
In the veil of fair disguises,
Yet too soon with grim surprises,
Lo, the worm defieslus still.
This is Death.
Though we trick our rose, at will,
Trusting to avert the ill,
In the veil of fair disguises,
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Lo, the worm defieslus still.
This is Death.
What is Death?
It is known by many a name,
Some of terror, some of shame,
Thundered forth in battle schisms,
Sighed with gentle euphemisms,
But its sentence is the same.
This is Death.
It is known by many a name,
Some of terror, some of shame,
Thundered forth in battle schisms,
Sighed with gentle euphemisms,
But its sentence is the same.
This is Death.
What is Death?
Other evils have their sting,
This alone is truly king,
For it is the end of pleasure,
End of every earthly pleasure,
End of every living thing.
This is Death.
Other evils have their sting,
This alone is truly king,
For it is the end of pleasure,
End of every earthly pleasure,
End of every living thing.
This is Death.
CHORUS OF CHRISTIAN MAIDENS.
What is Death?
Hope, by happy sufferers named,
Wherewith pictured life is framed,
Surging round us with its billows
Softer than all earthly pillows,
Hope that maketh not ashamed.
This is Death.
Hope, by happy sufferers named,
Wherewith pictured life is framed,
Surging round us with its billows
Softer than all earthly pillows,
Hope that maketh not ashamed.
This is Death.
What is Death?
Comfort for the pangs that press,
Rainbow over stormy stress,
Bright and blessed expectation
Of the glorious transformation,
Which awaits our mortal dress.
This is Death.
Comfort for the pangs that press,
Rainbow over stormy stress,
Bright and blessed expectation
Of the glorious transformation,
Which awaits our mortal dress.
This is Death.
What is Death?
Dawn that guides the faithful path,
Dawn no pagan pilgrim hath,
For the soldier in his tourney,
For the traveller on his journey,
Beaconing through the night of wrath.
This is Death.
Dawn that guides the faithful path,
Dawn no pagan pilgrim hath,
For the soldier in his tourney,
For the traveller on his journey,
Beaconing through the night of wrath.
This is Death.
What is Death?
Light for every upturned mind,
When the outward eye is blind,
Over earth with evil hoary,
Streaming from the gates of glory,
On the chains that cannot bind.
This is Death.
Light for every upturned mind,
When the outward eye is blind,
Over earth with evil hoary,
Streaming from the gates of glory,
On the chains that cannot bind.
This is Death.
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What is Death?
Not a sinking in the tide,
But a purging of our pride,
Not a failure or miscarriage,
But a high and holy marriage,
When the Bridegroom takes the Bride.
This is Death.
Not a sinking in the tide,
But a purging of our pride,
Not a failure or miscarriage,
But a high and holy marriage,
When the Bridegroom takes the Bride.
This is Death.
What is Death?
Not a stumbling of the feet,
Not a parting ne'er to meet,
But a grand reunion's token
For the friendships, only broken
To be made for ever sweet.
This is Death.
Not a stumbling of the feet,
Not a parting ne'er to meet,
But a grand reunion's token
For the friendships, only broken
To be made for ever sweet.
This is Death.
What is Death?
Not an unsurmounted bar,
To a vision fair and far,
But a stepping-stone uplifting,
Though it be through weary sifting,
To the bright and morning star.
This is Death.
Not an unsurmounted bar,
To a vision fair and far,
But a stepping-stone uplifting,
Though it be through weary sifting,
To the bright and morning star.
This is Death.
What is Death?
End of trouble, end of toil
Woven like a serpent's coil
Round the lives of man and maiden,
Resting for the heavy-laden,
Cleansing for the clinging soil.
This is Death.
End of trouble, end of toil
Woven like a serpent's coil
Round the lives of man and maiden,
Resting for the heavy-laden,
Cleansing for the clinging soil.
This is Death.
What is Death?
End of every damning vice,
Bought at a tremendous price,—
Like a sanctuary solemn,
Calm with many a storied column—
Bought by God's own sacrifice.
This is Death.
End of every damning vice,
Bought at a tremendous price,—
Like a sanctuary solemn,
Calm with many a storied column—
Bought by God's own sacrifice.
This is Death.
What is Death?
Starting-point for purer strife,
Striven without the blood-stained knife,
End of sorrow, and of sinning,
Bright and yet more bright beginning,
To a new and nobler life.
This is Death.
Starting-point for purer strife,
Striven without the blood-stained knife,
End of sorrow, and of sinning,
Bright and yet more bright beginning,
To a new and nobler life.
This is Death.
What is Death?
But a bridge-way to the shore,
But the opening of a door,
When this sad and suffering mortal
Bursts its wretched prison portal,
That shall hold it nevermore.
This is Death.
But a bridge-way to the shore,
But the opening of a door,
When this sad and suffering mortal
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That shall hold it nevermore.
This is Death.
What is Death?
Treading, where the Conqueror trod,
On the tyrant's broken rod,
With earth's loving latest blessing,
And Heaven's tender first caressing—
Yea, it is the kiss of God.
This is Death.
Treading, where the Conqueror trod,
On the tyrant's broken rod,
With earth's loving latest blessing,
And Heaven's tender first caressing—
Yea, it is the kiss of God.
This is Death.
What is Death?
As the shadows rise and flee,
And the eyelids ope to see,
It is life itself, eternal,
Breaking from the fount supernal,
When the soul begins to be.
This is Death.
As the shadows rise and flee,
And the eyelids ope to see,
It is life itself, eternal,
Breaking from the fount supernal,
When the soul begins to be.
This is Death.
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |