clouds float o'er us, dark as lead, all their rosy tints have fled; Heaven seems to have spread on high her funeral shroud. Now, behold the cloudless lift, God's bright sun has found a rift, Which assures us there is light beyond the cloud. And the sun has scarcely passed, and his soft grey shadows cast, Ere the pearly moon, of night the fairy queen, Looks down from her throne on high, where Death's quiet sleepers lie, And smiles with soothing peace upon the scene. Tablets ,cross, and tombstones there, gleam with snowy whiteness fair, Now, at rest, the pick lies quiet with the spade. And the voices of the night, whisper 'neath the moonbeam's light O'er the sloping, molded graves so newly made. Night has fled: the morrow dawns, and anew the city mourns. There are four more victims yet to be interred. And men's faces look distressed, and their spirits are depressed, And the city to its very heart is stirred. Sympathy pulsates, it beats, in the groups that line the streets; Now it centres 'round poor Havelock's late abode, Where the corteges combine, form a long and double line, Journey westward down the white and dusty road. How the colours meet and blend, borne by brother and by friend, Orange ,red, and blue, and white, and sombre black; Marching on with martial tread, towards the stronghold of the dead, Where once borne they never more will journey back. See, the sunbeams on them rest, as the horses pass abreast, And the following mourners march in double line. All are represented here, sadly following the bier, Shop and offices, unions, lodge, and town, and mine. Through the streets, 'mid bustling life and business hum, 'Neath the quiet funeral pall, while the grand 'Dead March in Saul' Harmonises with the beat of muffled drum. On the sunlit air its floats, with its sad and measured notes, Thrills through many a heart and moistens many an eye, With the soul it seems to rise, in its passage to the skies, 'Tis Death's cradle song, Death's soothing lullaby. Breathes o'er them the holy word, poor lads, twice or thrice interred, While upon the calm air floats the sacred theme. Were there nought of hope above, were our God no God of love, Life would be a blank, a mockery, a dream. But he shall revive our dust, live again we surely must, For the cold, cramped,hopeless grave is not our end. He will meet us over there, in his graveless kingdom fair, With the welcome of a brother and a friend. None will seek their crushed forms more, their last journey home is o'er, They are now permitted peacefully to lie, Where the sun's last glances rest, ere he sink into into the west On his journey through the glory-guilded sky. Hanging walls or greasy backs now no more their skill will tax, Care they not if stopes are dangerous or sound; They have done with mining toil, pick and hammer, drill and moyle, Their still forms are safety timbered underground. Underground they toiled with zest, underground they lie at rest, Earth that gave them bread, at last safe shelter gave. And the stars that gleam on high, watch above them as they lie, Like the eyes of God's dear angels o'er each grave. FINALE Strew the graves with brightest flowers of these dear dead mates of ours; May their homely virtues consecrate each spot! And we shed an honest tear, and their memories revere, Weep with those who weep, and mourn since they are not. By the widows they have left, grief-bowed, lonely and bereft, Know true hearts to soothe and solace while they weep. May the children left behind, brightest rays of comfort Find 'mong the workmates of the fathers hushed in sleep. For the widow in her grief may enjoy love's grand relief, And the sorrowing child knows God's paternal care; He will give the weeping friend, hope that ne'er shall have an end; Man through him can smile at Death, defy despair. May their friends and working mates meet with them at God's great gates, Where the platman-Death-shall send their souls above, In the land that knows no sigh, and that never heard Goodbye In the sacred bonds of peace and purest love. South Broken Hill, May 1901 ALF Palmer |