 | The Poetical Works of John Payne |  |
THE LAST OF THE GODS.
THE world is worn with many weary years;
The day is dim for long desire of death;
Life languishes amid its burning breath
Of nights and days, of barren hopes and fears,
Of joys that sing in vain to listless ears.
For Love and Spring are dead for lack of faith
And in the bird-songs goes a voice that saith,
“Who shall absolve us of this life of tears?”
Ah, who indeed? Who shall avail to save
Our souls that wither on the wrecks of life?
Is any strong among the Gods men crave
Enough to take again the gifts He gave,
To draw death like a dream upon our strife
And soothe the sick world to its grateful grave?
The day is dim for long desire of death;
Life languishes amid its burning breath
Of nights and days, of barren hopes and fears,
Of joys that sing in vain to listless ears.
For Love and Spring are dead for lack of faith
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“Who shall absolve us of this life of tears?”
Ah, who indeed? Who shall avail to save
Our souls that wither on the wrecks of life?
Is any strong among the Gods men crave
Enough to take again the gifts He gave,
To draw death like a dream upon our strife
And soothe the sick world to its grateful grave?
Nay, who shall hope, when God Himself implores,
With piteous hands, the unremorseful sleep,—
When Gods and men, from one abysmal deep
Of loveless life, lift hands toward the shores
Of the unnearing rest—through Time, that roars
With wave on wave of years to come—and weep
In undistinguished anguish, as they keep
Life's hopeless vigil at Death's stirless doors?
Lo! of all Gods that men have knelt unto,—
Of all the dread Immortals fierce and fair,
That men have painted on the vault of blue,—
There is but one remains, of all that were.
DEATH hath put on their crowns; and to Him sue
Mortals and Gods in parity of prayer.
With piteous hands, the unremorseful sleep,—
When Gods and men, from one abysmal deep
Of loveless life, lift hands toward the shores
Of the unnearing rest—through Time, that roars
With wave on wave of years to come—and weep
In undistinguished anguish, as they keep
Life's hopeless vigil at Death's stirless doors?
Lo! of all Gods that men have knelt unto,—
Of all the dread Immortals fierce and fair,
That men have painted on the vault of blue,—
There is but one remains, of all that were.
DEATH hath put on their crowns; and to Him sue
Mortals and Gods in parity of prayer.
| The Poetical Works of John Payne | |