The Hearth-Stone: Thoughts Upon Home-Life in Our Cities. Samuel Osgood

Ask the old why they weep, and not the children,

       For the outside earth is cold—

       And we young ones stand without, in our bewildering,

       And the graves are for the old!

       Two words, indeed, of praying we remember;

       And at midnight’s hour of harm—

       “Our Father,” looking upward in the chamber,

       We say softly for a charm.

       We know no other words, except “Our Father,”

       And we think that, in some pause of angels’ song,

       God may pluck them with the silence sweet to gather,

       And hold both within his right hand which is strong.

       “Our Father!” If He heard us, He would surely

       (For they call him good and mild)

       Answer, smiling down the steep world very purely,

       “Come and rest with me, my child!”

       And well may the children weep before you;

       They are weary, ere they run;

       They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory

       Which is brighter than the sun:

       They know the grief of men, but not the wisdom;

       Are bitter with despairing, but not calm—

       Are slaves, without the liberty in Christdom—

       Are martyrs, by the pang without the palm—

       Are worn, as if with age, yet unretrievingly

       No dear remembrance keep;

       Are orphans of the earthly love and heavenly:

       Let them weep! let them weep!

       They look up with their pale and sunken faces,

       And their look is dread to see,

       For you think you see their angels in their places,

       With eyes meant for Deity.