PASSED ON.
A scene of care and clouds
They have left for a home of joy
A world where pain each pleasure shrouds,
For bliss without alloy.
Our hearts their memories bless,
Our lips their worth confess,
Their own death-knell, they heard it rung,
And yet with uncomplaining tongue
They have passed on—
Our holy dead.
They have left for a home of joy
A world where pain each pleasure shrouds,
For bliss without alloy.
Our hearts their memories bless,
Our lips their worth confess,
Their own death-knell, they heard it rung,
And yet with uncomplaining tongue
They have passed on—
Our holy dead.
The same soft south-wind steals
O'er age's wrinkled brow,
And childhood's smooth cheek feels
Its soothing influence now;
Then by the couch of death
It gives the dying breath,
In weakness making strong;
Thus did they move along,
They have passed on—
Our holy dead.
O'er age's wrinkled brow,
And childhood's smooth cheek feels
Its soothing influence now;
Then by the couch of death
It gives the dying breath,
In weakness making strong;
Thus did they move along,
They have passed on—
Our holy dead.
The song-bird tunes its lay
Beside the cottage door,
Then soaring far away,
Its form is seen no more;
Safe in a peaceful nest
It finds a welcome rest—
Hope dawned when they appeared,
For thus they sung and cheered;
They have passed on—
Our holy dead.
Beside the cottage door,
Then soaring far away,
Its form is seen no more;
Safe in a peaceful nest
It finds a welcome rest—
Hope dawned when they appeared,
For thus they sung and cheered;
They have passed on—
Our holy dead.
The blue and sparkling wave
Doth gently kiss the strand,
Then distant shores to lave
It hasteth from the land;
A blessing to bestow
Thus onward did they go;
Now, like that wavelet bright,
They shine in heaven's own light;
They have passed on—
Our holy dead.
Doth gently kiss the strand,
Then distant shores to lave
It hasteth from the land;
A blessing to bestow
Thus onward did they go;
Now, like that wavelet bright,
They shine in heaven's own light;
They have passed on—
Our holy dead.
The grain to the scythe doth yield,
Or the sower had lost his toil;
No sigh is heard when it quits the field
At his will, the lord of the soil.
The reaper's shout was loud,
When they to his sickle bowed;
Now the glad Harvest Home is sung,
For they are bound the sheaves among;
They have passed on—
Our holy dead.
Or the sower had lost his toil;
No sigh is heard when it quits the field
At his will, the lord of the soil.
The reaper's shout was loud,
When they to his sickle bowed;
Now the glad Harvest Home is sung,
For they are bound the sheaves among;
They have passed on—
Our holy dead.
Oh! they soothed like the south-wind,
They sung like the bird.
Like the wave's gentle murmur
Their voices were heard;
They were ripe like the grain,
Then thy sorrow restrain;
For to them with the wheat a place hath been given,
And they are now safe in the garner of heaven;
They have passed on—
Our holy dead.
They sung like the bird.
Like the wave's gentle murmur
Their voices were heard;
They were ripe like the grain,
Then thy sorrow restrain;
For to them with the wheat a place hath been given,
And they are now safe in the garner of heaven;
They have passed on—
Our holy dead.
Since death's dark shadow flings
Its pall o'er human love,
Who doth not sigh for wings,
For wings to soar above?
Who doth not long to go?
For none true bliss can know,
Till of them it is said,
As of our holy dead—
They have passed on
Our holy dead.
Its pall o'er human love,
Who doth not sigh for wings,
For wings to soar above?
Who doth not long to go?
For none true bliss can know,
Till of them it is said,
As of our holy dead—
They have passed on
Our holy dead.