What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers
May be heaven's distant lamps.

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Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution,
She lives whom we call dead.

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And as she looked around, she saw how Death the consoler,
Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it forever.

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There is a reaper whose name is Death,
And with his sickle keen
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
And the flowers that grow between.

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There is no death! What seems so is transition;
This life of mortal breath
Is but a suburb of the life elysian,
Whose portal we call Death.

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Be still, sad heart and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.

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Good-night! good-night! as we so oft have said,
Beneath this roof at midnight, in the days
That are no more, and shall no more return.
Thou hast but taken up thy lamp and gone to bed;
I stay a little longer, as one stays
To cover up the embers that still burn.

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Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them.
. . . .
Into the jaws of death,
Into the mouth of hell
Rode the six hundred.

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O Love! they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river:
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow forever and forever.
Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying!
And answer, echoes, answer! dying, dying, dying.

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