Classic Poem

Sing, boys, sing! while the starry wing
Of the night is arching o'er us,
Gentle and low, let the measure flow,
Deepened and full to the chorus.
A song we raise to the buried days,
That were beaming with lightness only,
Ere the brightness fled, ere the loved were dead,
And we were left saddened and lonely.

And are these the days of the darkening haze,
The mists whence no star may quiver?
And is this the moan of the monotone
Of the dark and tideless river?
We look not back on our weary track
For the voice of a vanished chorus;
The lights are gone that have led us on,
But the path lies straight before us.

Let the hair grow white, let the failing sight
Await but a clouded morrow;
We keep the faith that we pledged to Death
And the troth we plighted Sorrow!
There are flowers that bloom by the quiet tomb
Of the gentle, the true, and tender;
And they are all that our prayers recall,
Or the sepulchre can surrender!

Are there forms as fair as we buried there?
Are there lips with such fragrance laden?
Are there sounds as sweet as the bounding feet
That are white 'mid the lilies of Aidenne?
It may be so, but they bring no glow
To hearts that are haunted ever
By the shadow that lies on the shrouded eyes,
And the lips that are sealed forever.

Let Death remove from the brows we love
The damps of his dark'ning river;
Let Heaven restore on its shining shore
The lost whom we love forever!
Their light alone on our pathway thrown,
Their star to our darkness given,
Shall lend its fires to the trembling wires
That are linked to our hearts and Heaven.