Then "Gaily! Gaily! Gaily!"
Rang the laughter everywhere,
From the lips that seemed too lightsome
For the sigh of any care.
And the dance went "Merry! Merry!"
Whilst the feet that tripped along,
Bore the hearts that were as happy
As a wild bird's happy song.
And sweet words with smiles upon them,
Joy-winged, flitted to and fro,
Flushing every face they met with
With the glory of their glow.
Not a brow with cloud upon it —
Not an eye that seemed to know
What a tear is; not a bosom
That had ever nursed a woe.
And how "Swiftly! Swiftly! Swiftly!"
Like the ripples of a stream,
Did the bright hours chase each other,
Till it all seemed like a dream;
Till it seemed as if no ~Never~
Ever in this world had been,
To o'ercloud the ~brief Forever~,
Shining o'er the happy scene.
Dimly! dimly fell the shadows
Of the tranquil eventide;
But the sound of dance and laughter
Would not die, and had not died;
And still "Happy! Happy! Happy!"
Rang the voiceless vesper bells
O'er the hearts that were too happy
To remember earth's farewells.
Came the night hours — faster! faster!
Rose the laughter and the dance,
And the eyes that should look weary
Shone the brighter in their glance:
And they stole from every minute
What no other day could lend —
They were happy! happy! happy!
But the feast must have an end.
"Children, come!" the words were cruel —
'Twas the death sigh of the feast;
And they came, still merry! merry!
At the bidding of the priest,
Who had heard the joy-bells ringing
Round him all the summer day.
"Happy! Happy! Happy! Happy!"
Did he hear an angel say?
"Happy! happy! still more happy!
Yea, the happiest are they.
I was moving 'mid the children
By the borders of the bay,
And I bring to God no record
Of a single sin this day.
"Happy! Happy! Happy!"
When your life seems lone and long,
You will hear that feast's bells ringing
Far and faintly thro' my song.
Lines ["The death of men is not the death">[
The death of men is not the death
Of rights that urged them to the fray;
For men may yield
On battle-field
A noble life with stainless shield,
And swords may rust
Above their dust,
But still, and still
The touch and thrill
Of freedom's vivifying breath
Will nerve a heart and rouse a will
In some hour, in the days to be,
To win back triumphs from defeat;
And those who blame us then will greet
Right's glorious eternity.