We again visited the scene of the fatal event on Monday, Sept. 30, and the whole village continued in a state of the greatest excitement, thousands having assembled to witness the corpses of the sufferers borne to their last long home. Previous to the departure of the bodies (which were placed in carts) Mr. Robert Archer, Miner, delivered an excellent and suitable address to the assembled multitude, who seemed evidently impressed with the awful solemnity of the occasion, and after a hymn had been sung the immense procession, which was upwards of a mile long, wended its way to the various places of interment, viz., Easington, South Hetton, Halgarth, and Great Hetton.

'Twas evening, and a sweeter balm on earth was never shed,
The sun lay in this gorgeous pump on ocean's heaving bed;
The sky was clad in bright array, to beautiful to last,
For night, like envy, scowling came, and all the scene o'ercast.
'Tis thus with hope — 'tis thus with life, when sunny dreams appear,
The infant leaves the cradle-couch to slumber on a bier,
The rainbow of our cherish'd love, we see in beauty's eye,
That glows with all its mingled hues, alas! to fade and die!
'Tis dark, still night, the sultry air scarce moves a leaf or flower;
The aspen, trembling, fears to stir in such a silent hour;
The footsteps of the timid hare distinctly may be heard
Between the pauses of the song of night's portentious bird.
And in so drear a moment plods the Miner to his toil,
Compelled refreshing sleep to leave for labour's hardiest moil;
By fate's rude hand the dream of peace is broken and destroyed,
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And why this sacrifice of rest — did not the Maker plan
The darksome hours for gentle sleep, the day for work by man?
Yes! but the mighty gods of earth are wiser in these laws,
They hold themselves with pride to be their creatures' first great cause
The Miner hath his work begun, and busy strokes resound,
Warm drops of sweat are falling fast — the coal lies piled around.
And what a sight of slavery! in narrow seams compressed
Are seen the prostrate forms of men to hew on back and breast.
Fainting with heat, with dust begrimed, their meager faces see
By glimmering lamps that serve to show their looks of misery.
And oft the hard, swollen hand is raised to wipe the forehead dews,
He breathes a sigh for labour's close, and then his toil renews.
And manly hearts are throbbing there — and visions in the mine
Float o'er the young and sanguine soul like stars that rain and shine
amid the dreariness that dwells within the cavern's gloom
Age looks for youth to solace him — waits for his fruits to bloom.
Behold! there is a careless face bent from yon cabined nook,
Hope you may read this in his bright eye — there's future in his look;
Oh, blight not then the fairy flower, 'tis heartless to destroy
The only pleasure mortals know — anticipated joy!
Oh, God! what flickering flame is this? see, see again its glare!
Dancing around the wiry lamp like meteors in the air.
Away, away! —the shaft, the shaft! — the blazing fire flies;
Confusion! — speed! — the lava stream the lightning's wing defies!
The shaft! — the shaft! — down on the ground and let the demon ride
Like the sirocco on the blast, volcanoes in their pride!
The choke-damp angel slaughters all — he spares no living soul!
He smites them with sulphureous brand
he blackens them like coal
The young — the hopeful, happy young fall with the old and gray,
And oh, great God! a dreadful doom, thus buried to decay
Beneath the green and flowery soil whereon their friends remain,
Disfigured, and, perchance, alive, their cries unheard and vain!
Oh, desolation! thou art now a tyrant on thy throne,
Thou smilest with sardonic lip to hear the shriek and groan!
To see each mangled, writhing corpse, to raining eyes displayed,
For hopeless widows now lament; and orphans wail dismayed.
Behold thy work! The maid is there her lover to deplore,
The mother wails her only child that she shall see no more!
An idiot sister laughs and sings — oh, melancholy joy!
While bending o'er her brother dead, she opens the sightless eye.
Apart, an aged man appears, like some sage Druid-oak,
Shedding his tears like leaves that fall beneath the woodman's stroke
His poor old heart is rent in twain — he stands and weeps alone,
The sole supporter of his house, the last, the best is gone!
This is thy work, fell tyrant! this the Miner's common lot!
In danger's darkling den he toils, and dies lamented not.
The army hath its pensioners — the sons of ocean rest,
When battle's crimson flag is furled on bounty's downy breast.
But who regards the mining slave, that for his country's wealth
Resigns his sleep, his pleasures, home, his freedom, and his health
From the glad skies and flagrant fields he cheerfully descends,
And eats his bread in stenchy caves where his existence ends.
Aye! this is he that masters grind and level with the dust,
The slave that barters life to gain the pittance of a crust.
Go read yon pillared calendar, the record that will tell
How many victims of the mine in yonder churchyard dwell.
Hath honour's laurels ever wreathed the despot's haughty brow?
Hath pity's hallowed gems appeared when he in death lay low?
Unhonoured is his memory, despised his worthless name,
Who wields in life the iron rod in death no tear can claim.