The Journey with the Dead

They journey neath the summer sky,A lov'd and loving train,But Nature spreads her genial charmsTo lure their souls in vain,Husband and wife and child are there,Warm-hearted, true and kind,Yet every kindred lip is seal'd,And every head declin'd.

Weary and sad, their course is bentTo seek an ancient dome,Where hospitality hath madeA long-remember'd home;And one with mournful care they bringWhose footstep erst was gayAmid these halls; why comes she nowIn sorrow's dark array?

Here fell a sainted grandsire's prayerUpon her infant rest,And with the love of ripen'd yearsThe cherish'd haunt was blest;Here was the talisman that badeHer heart's blood sparkle high,Why steals no flush across her cheek?No lightning to her eye?

They bear her to the house of God,But though that hallow'd spotIs fill'd with prayer from lips she lov'dHer voice respondeth not,

She heedeth not, she heedeth not,She, who from early daysHad joy'd within that holy ChurchTo swell Jehovah's praise.

Then onward toward a narrow cellThey tread the grass-grown trackFrom whence the unreturning guestDoth send no tidings back;There sleeps the grandsire high and braveIn freedom's battles tried,*With him whose banner was the crossOf Jesus crucified.

Down by those hoary chiefs she laidHer young, unfrosted head,To rise no more, until the voiceOf Jesus wakes the dead,From her own dear, domestic bower,From deep, confiding love,From earth's unshaded smile, she turn'dTo purer bliss above.