 | Songs of two centuries |  |
133
THE FUNERAL-EXPRESS.
This was written upon a train running daily from Chicago to two cemeteries several miles outside the city. Several funerals are upon each train—the bodies all being placed in a special car, conveniently arranged with niches for that purpose. The daily excursion to these fields of the dead form a most impressive study, and the author has often accompanied them.
This was written upon a train running daily from Chicago to two cemeteries several miles outside the city. Several funerals are upon each train—the bodies all being placed in a special car, conveniently arranged with niches for that purpose. The daily excursion to these fields of the dead form a most impressive study, and the author has often accompanied them.
See what from the town approaches,
With its stately line of coaches,
With its engine-jewels gleaming
In the sunlight o'er them streaming:
'Tis the funeral-train!
In its rooms so swiftly flying,
There are hundreds slowly dying:
Yet they mark with curious pity
Some who in the painless city
Will forget their pain.
With its stately line of coaches,
With its engine-jewels gleaming
In the sunlight o'er them streaming:
'Tis the funeral-train!
In its rooms so swiftly flying,
There are hundreds slowly dying:
Yet they mark with curious pity
Some who in the painless city
Will forget their pain.
In those halls so swiftly flying,
There is moaning, there is crying,
For the wreckage that reposes
'Neath the lilies and the roses
Of the funeral-train.
Some are leisure-hours beguiling,
Unaware, amid their smiling,
Of the burials of the morrow,
That will rush with equal sorrow,
Through their heart and brain!
There is moaning, there is crying,
For the wreckage that reposes
'Neath the lilies and the roses
Of the funeral-train.
Some are leisure-hours beguiling,
Unaware, amid their smiling,
Of the burials of the morrow,
That will rush with equal sorrow,
Through their heart and brain!
In that hearse so swiftly flying,
Is an old man, meekly lying;
Eighty harvests fell upon him,
Ere the silent sickle won him
From the standing grain;
And, with frozen smile and dimple,
Lies a babe, divinely simple,
Who, before this world discerning,
Found itself to God returning,
With no earthly stain.
Is an old man, meekly lying;
Eighty harvests fell upon him,
Ere the silent sickle won him
From the standing grain;
And, with frozen smile and dimple,
Lies a babe, divinely simple,
Who, before this world discerning,
Found itself to God returning,
With no earthly stain.
134
In that tomb so swiftly flying,
Is a face the world defying,
Manhood's guise, in beastly fashion:
Just a page of reckless passion
Love implored in vain;
And a girlish one of sweetness,
Yet with womanhood's completeness,
And a semblance always thrilling,
Death could not succeed in killing,
When her heart was slain.
Is a face the world defying,
Manhood's guise, in beastly fashion:
Just a page of reckless passion
Love implored in vain;
And a girlish one of sweetness,
Yet with womanhood's completeness,
And a semblance always thrilling,
Death could not succeed in killing,
When her heart was slain.
In that crypt so swiftly flying,
Now a marble mansion nighing,
Is a corse arrayed in splendor—
Wealth its pitiful defender,
Death a doubtful gain;
And another that must grovel
In The Acre's humblest hovel,
Yet with tears and sorrow nigh him
Such as money ne'er could buy him,
Shares the funeral-train.
Now a marble mansion nighing,
Is a corse arrayed in splendor—
Wealth its pitiful defender,
Death a doubtful gain;
And another that must grovel
In The Acre's humblest hovel,
Yet with tears and sorrow nigh him
Such as money ne'er could buy him,
Shares the funeral-train.
Now this throng of strange appearing
Death's wide palace-door is nearing:
With his subjects round him lying,
Only earthly king undying,
Long has been his reign!
Pride and power cannot ignore him;
All must cast themselves before him;
Journeys, whether mean or splendid,
Shall forever here be ended:
Stop the funeral-train.
Death's wide palace-door is nearing:
With his subjects round him lying,
Only earthly king undying,
Long has been his reign!
Pride and power cannot ignore him;
All must cast themselves before him;
Journeys, whether mean or splendid,
Shall forever here be ended:
Stop the funeral-train.
| Songs of two centuries | |