And The dread Saul's march Thrilling its weird music Above his grave, Is but an echo of dead expectancy and woe! That fall upon our hearts Like the rustling leaves of autumn! Ah! There are human faces Meeting our eyes each day, Which, If they lay cold and still The air would rend with our lamentations And sorrow! And our sad tears would vainly try To wash the lines of care From their dead faces! That fill the haunted chamber of our souls For evermore! Yet! No word of sympathy, No outstretched hand, Bore to their full expectant hearts A token! No kindling glance Of sympathetic brotherhood; Bore to their asking eyes "I have a care of thee!" Thus we go on day after day, wrapping The mantle of selfishness round our humanity! Looking so earthward, The tears of our grieving brother Fall upon our feet! O, have a care that No such sin as this be recorded in Heaven's register To burthen your free souls As ye go upward! When The weary day Lays down her tired head Upon the dreamy pillow of the past, Closing the silent gates of night On her departing foot-falls! Throwing back upon our thrilling senses The curtains of mystery! That float upon the silence and hush Of the night season! Making the soundless air Tremulous with life! 'Tis then, And not till then. Pervaded by a divine restlessness We kneel And loose our earthly shoes from off our feet For the ground whereon we stand Is holy!