by John Gusthart
Where did the Miners Die?
It was not the battle field
Amid the din of war
Where men meets man in bloody strife,
And concurring legions are:
Where death doth stand with scythe in hand,
As man's relentless foe,
To spread the plain with heaps of slain,
And lay the mighty low.
Ah no! nor on the briney sea,
Where foaming bollows rise;
Until the ship, with living freight,
Is tossed to meet the skies.
Her timbers creak, the doom'd ones shriek,
But still the tempests roar;
Too weak to brave the angry wave,
She sinks to rise no more.
Ah no! not thus on land or sea,
The miners met with death;
But in that tomb their hands had form'd,
They breathed their lastest breath.
A fatal sleep did o'er them creep,
And close each mortal eye;
From vaults of coal, each precious soul
Hath wing'd its flight on high.
No fever raged with wasting fire
To thin each manly form,
And leave at last a scanty share
To feed the hungry worm.
The blooming boy, his mother's joy --
Te youth of promise rare,
With manhood's fire -- and aged sire,
ALIVE -- were buried there.
No wife besides the husband stood,
With words of healing power;
Nor mother with angelic voice,
To soothe their dying hour;
But friend with friend, united, blend
their prayers, with dying breath;
And sire with son were clasp'd as one
In icy bonds of death.
Their grave has yielded up its charge,
The quick have found the dead;
TWICE buried -- NOW they rest in peace
Beneath a grassy bed.
The lonely tomb shall lose its gloom,
Their dust to life return,
When CHRIST to all, with solemn call,
PROCLAIMS THE RISING MORN.
It was not the battle field
Amid the din of war
Where men meets man in bloody strife,
And concurring legions are:
Where death doth stand with scythe in hand,
As man's relentless foe,
To spread the plain with heaps of slain,
And lay the mighty low.
Ah no! nor on the briney sea,
Where foaming bollows rise;
Until the ship, with living freight,
Is tossed to meet the skies.
Her timbers creak, the doom'd ones shriek,
But still the tempests roar;
Too weak to brave the angry wave,
She sinks to rise no more.
Ah no! not thus on land or sea,
The miners met with death;
But in that tomb their hands had form'd,
They breathed their lastest breath.
A fatal sleep did o'er them creep,
And close each mortal eye;
From vaults of coal, each precious soul
Hath wing'd its flight on high.
No fever raged with wasting fire
To thin each manly form,
And leave at last a scanty share
To feed the hungry worm.
The blooming boy, his mother's joy --
Te youth of promise rare,
With manhood's fire -- and aged sire,
ALIVE -- were buried there.
No wife besides the husband stood,
With words of healing power;
Nor mother with angelic voice,
To soothe their dying hour;
But friend with friend, united, blend
their prayers, with dying breath;
And sire with son were clasp'd as one
In icy bonds of death.
Their grave has yielded up its charge,
The quick have found the dead;
TWICE buried -- NOW they rest in peace
Beneath a grassy bed.
The lonely tomb shall lose its gloom,
Their dust to life return,
When CHRIST to all, with solemn call,
PROCLAIMS THE RISING MORN.
