Oblivion's dust will pour,
Love's eyes look never more!
There is no silver sound, no speech,
Although they rest so nigh,
No rosy, dimpled hands impleach
In slumber tranquilly.
From the close clasp of loving arms,
From heedless holiday.
Hurled upon death's dire alarms,
And to uncared-for clay!
II.
Are they indeed unknown, unnamed?
Is any life spilt water?
In the lone universe unclaimed!
Souls for mad Chance to slaughter!
Have they no mother, and no father?
In all the worlds no friend?
Are they a dim, grey dust? … or rather.
Did our Eternal Parent send
Fair shining cohorts of His grace,
Strong children of His love,
Who minister before His face,
Swift-thronging from above,
To gather them from forth the gloom,
Long ere men found their forms?
To shield them in the shock of doom,
