[Poems by Gallagher in] The poets and poetry of the West with biographical and critical notices |
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OUR CHILDREN. |
 | [Poems by Gallagher in] The poets and poetry of the West |  |
OUR CHILDREN.
They are stricken, darkly stricken;
Faint and fainter grows each breath;
And the shadows round them thicken,
Of the darkness that is Death.
We are with them—bending o'er them—
And the Soul in sorrow saith,
“Would that I had passed before them,
To the darkness that is Death!”
Faint and fainter grows each breath;
And the shadows round them thicken,
Of the darkness that is Death.
We are with them—bending o'er them—
And the Soul in sorrow saith,
“Would that I had passed before them,
To the darkness that is Death!”
They are sleeping, coldly sleeping,
In the graveyard still and lone,
Where the winds, above them sweeping,
Make a melancholy moan.
Thickly round us—darkly o'er us—
Is the pall of sorrow thrown;
And our heart-beats make the chorus
Of that melancholy moan.
In the graveyard still and lone,
Where the winds, above them sweeping,
Make a melancholy moan.
Thickly round us—darkly o'er us—
Is the pall of sorrow thrown;
And our heart-beats make the chorus
Of that melancholy moan.
They are waking, brightly waking,
From the slumbers of the tomb,
And, enrobed in light, forsaking
Its impenetrable gloom.
They are rising—they have risen—
And their spirit-forms illume,
In the darkness of Death's prison,
The impenetrable gloom.
From the slumbers of the tomb,
And, enrobed in light, forsaking
Its impenetrable gloom.
They are rising—they have risen—
And their spirit-forms illume,
In the darkness of Death's prison,
The impenetrable gloom.
They are passing, upward passing,
Dearest beings of our love,
And their spirit-forms are glassing
In the beautiful Above:
There we see them—there we hear them—
Through our dreams they ever move;
And we long to be a-near them,
In the beautiful Above.
Dearest beings of our love,
And their spirit-forms are glassing
In the beautiful Above:
There we see them—there we hear them—
Through our dreams they ever move;
And we long to be a-near them,
In the beautiful Above.
They are going, gently going,
In their angel-robes to stand,
Where the river of Life is flowing
In the far-off Silent Land.
We shall mourn them—we shall miss them,
From our broken little band;
But our souls shall still caress them,
In the far-off Silent Land.
In their angel-robes to stand,
Where the river of Life is flowing
In the far-off Silent Land.
We shall mourn them—we shall miss them,
From our broken little band;
But our souls shall still caress them,
In the far-off Silent Land.
They are singing, sweetly singing,
Far beyond the vail of Night,
Where the angel-harps are ringing,
And the Day is ever bright.
We can love them—we can greet them—
From this land of dimmer light,
Till God takes us hence to meet them
Where the Day is ever bright.
Far beyond the vail of Night,
Where the angel-harps are ringing,
And the Day is ever bright.
We can love them—we can greet them—
From this land of dimmer light,
Till God takes us hence to meet them
Where the Day is ever bright.
| [Poems by Gallagher in] The poets and poetry of the West | |