At
our old pastimes in the hall
We gambol’d, making vain pretence
Of gladness, with an awful sense
Of
one mute Shadow watching all.
We
paused: the winds were in the beech:
We heard them sweep the winter land;
And in a circle hand-in-hand
Sat
silent, looking each at each.
Then
echo-like our voices rang;
We sung, tho’ every eye was dim,
A merry song we sang with him
Last
year: impetuously we sang:
We
ceased: a gentler feeling crept
Upon us: surely rest is meet:
‘They rest,’ we said, ‘their sleep is sweet,’
And
silence follow’d, and we wept.
Our
voices took a higher range;
Once more we sang: ‘They do not die
Nor lose their mortal sympathy,
Nor
change to us, although they change;
‘Rapt
from the fickle and the frail
With gather’d power, yet the same,
Pierces the keen seraphic flame
From
orb to orb, from veil to veil.’
Rise,
happy morn, rise, holy morn,
Draw forth the cheerful day from night:
O Father, touch the east, and light
The
light that shone when Hope was born.