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13
HARTLEY PIT CATASTROPHE.
[_]
Prologue Written by J. Stanyan Bigg, and delivered by T. Town, Esq., Ulverston, at the Concert held there February 11th, 1862, on behalf of those who are bereaved by the accident.
Death in the Palace; Death within the Cot,
Death in all ranks! 'Tis but the common lot;
He comes with stealthy steps, and in the night,
Taketh our cherished treasure from our sight;
He tracks our steps, through hamlet, tower, and town,
And, with sure instinct, brings his victim down;
And smites the pauper as he smites the crown.
With pallid face he leaps into his car,
And flames out ruddy in the sweat of war;
He comes unto the cottage door and knocks,
And then, in spite of bars, and bolts, and locks,
Some one gets up and goes,—and is not seen—
Only another hillock on the green
Of the Sabbatic churchyard;—all is done,
And one more mortal shall not see the sun!
Death in all ranks! 'Tis but the common lot;
He comes with stealthy steps, and in the night,
Taketh our cherished treasure from our sight;
He tracks our steps, through hamlet, tower, and town,
And, with sure instinct, brings his victim down;
And smites the pauper as he smites the crown.
With pallid face he leaps into his car,
And flames out ruddy in the sweat of war;
He comes unto the cottage door and knocks,
And then, in spite of bars, and bolts, and locks,
Some one gets up and goes,—and is not seen—
Only another hillock on the green
Of the Sabbatic churchyard;—all is done,
And one more mortal shall not see the sun!
But seldom to a village doth he come,
Wringing all hearts, and hushing all the hum
Of its glad voices. Seldom is he seen
Wrapping in shadow all the village green;
Seldom he enters in at every door,
And writes the fearful legend up—“No more,”
Over the mantel-piece, and on the floor.
No more a father's shadow on the wall;
No more a husband's step, a brother's call,
No more the ruddy child with sunny hair,
Coming into the house—a psalm and prayer.
No more the eager hand upon the door,
For father, husband, brother, are no more.
Wringing all hearts, and hushing all the hum
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Wrapping in shadow all the village green;
Seldom he enters in at every door,
And writes the fearful legend up—“No more,”
Over the mantel-piece, and on the floor.
No more a father's shadow on the wall;
No more a husband's step, a brother's call,
No more the ruddy child with sunny hair,
Coming into the house—a psalm and prayer.
No more the eager hand upon the door,
For father, husband, brother, are no more.
Thus has it been at Hartley. Every room
Of every cottage hath its special gloom,
Some one is missing—husband, father, son,
Shall fill their place no more. Their day is done;
And there is night, and woe, and wail, and gloom,
And saddest shadows fill up all the room
Of the dear lost ones,—each one in his place;
Death hath washed white each bronzed and ruddy face;
And so of all the dearest ties an end,
Of father, husband, brother, child, and friend:
Husbands have said their last “Good-morn,” and boys
Have set aside for ever childish toys,
And with the morning breeze upon their breath
Have gone into the mysteries of death,
Their mothers' pleading arms not heeding;—So
Went the grey-headed, so the strong men go
When the dread Angel makes the sign of woe.
Of every cottage hath its special gloom,
Some one is missing—husband, father, son,
Shall fill their place no more. Their day is done;
And there is night, and woe, and wail, and gloom,
And saddest shadows fill up all the room
Of the dear lost ones,—each one in his place;
Death hath washed white each bronzed and ruddy face;
And so of all the dearest ties an end,
Of father, husband, brother, child, and friend:
Husbands have said their last “Good-morn,” and boys
Have set aside for ever childish toys,
And with the morning breeze upon their breath
Have gone into the mysteries of death,
Their mothers' pleading arms not heeding;—So
Went the grey-headed, so the strong men go
When the dread Angel makes the sign of woe.
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A village has been stricken:—On the door
Of every cottage are the words “No more;”
No more the sturdy hands that won the bread,
Husband, and brother, child, and friend are dead.
And we, who come before you thus, to-night,
Cannot bring back the lost ones to the light;
Cannot refill the lorn and empty chair,
Cannot bring back the earnest evening prayer;
Cannot unto the mother give her son,
Nor to the wife her husband—all is done!
But still, amid this holocaust of dead,
The living need what we can give them—Bread!
Of every cottage are the words “No more;”
No more the sturdy hands that won the bread,
Husband, and brother, child, and friend are dead.
And we, who come before you thus, to-night,
Cannot bring back the lost ones to the light;
Cannot refill the lorn and empty chair,
Cannot bring back the earnest evening prayer;
Cannot unto the mother give her son,
Nor to the wife her husband—all is done!
But still, amid this holocaust of dead,
The living need what we can give them—Bread!
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