The Alhambra and Other Poems By F. B. Money-Coutts [i.e. F. B. T. Coutts-Nevill] |
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Mors, Morituri Te Salutamus! |
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 | The Alhambra and Other Poems |  |
23
Mors, Morituri Te Salutamus!
I hate thee, Death!
Not that I fear thee,—more than mortal sprite
Fears the dark entrance, whence no man returns;
For who would not resign his scanty breath,
Unreal joy, and troublesome delight,
To marble coffer or sepulchral urn's
Inviolate keeping?
To quench the smouldering lamp, that feebly burns
Within his chamber, to procure sweet sleeping,
Is not a madman's act. And yet I hate thee,
Swift breaker of life's poor illusion,
Stern ender of love's fond confusion,
And with rebellion in my heart await thee.
Not that I fear thee,—more than mortal sprite
Fears the dark entrance, whence no man returns;
For who would not resign his scanty breath,
Unreal joy, and troublesome delight,
To marble coffer or sepulchral urn's
Inviolate keeping?
To quench the smouldering lamp, that feebly burns
Within his chamber, to procure sweet sleeping,
Is not a madman's act. And yet I hate thee,
Swift breaker of life's poor illusion,
Stern ender of love's fond confusion,
And with rebellion in my heart await thee.
Like mariners we sail, of fate unwist,
With orders sealed and only to be read
When home has faded in the morning mist
And simple faith and innocence are fled!
With orders sealed and only to be read
When home has faded in the morning mist
And simple faith and innocence are fled!
Oft we neglect them, being much dismayed
By phantoms and weird wonders
That haunt the deep,
By voices, winds, and thunders,
Old mariners that cannot pray nor weep,
And faces of drowned souls that cannot sleep!
Or else our crew is mutinous, arrayed
Against us, and the mandate is delayed.
By phantoms and weird wonders
That haunt the deep,
By voices, winds, and thunders,
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And faces of drowned souls that cannot sleep!
Or else our crew is mutinous, arrayed
Against us, and the mandate is delayed.
But when the forces that rebelled
Are satisfied or quelled;
When sails are trimmed to catch the merry wind,
And billows dance before and foam behind;
Free, free at last from tumult and distraction
Of pleasure beckoned and of pain repelled,—
Free from ourselves and disciplined for action,—
We break the seal of destiny, to find
The bourne or venture for our cruise designed,
Then, at that very moment, hark! a cry
On deck; and then a silence, as of breath
Held. In the offing, low against the sky,
Hoves thy black flag! . . . Therefore I hate thee, Death!
Are satisfied or quelled;
When sails are trimmed to catch the merry wind,
And billows dance before and foam behind;
Free, free at last from tumult and distraction
Of pleasure beckoned and of pain repelled,—
Free from ourselves and disciplined for action,—
We break the seal of destiny, to find
The bourne or venture for our cruise designed,
Then, at that very moment, hark! a cry
On deck; and then a silence, as of breath
Held. In the offing, low against the sky,
Hoves thy black flag! . . . Therefore I hate thee, Death!
The verb “to hove” is no doubt a little archaic. Perhaps it dropped out of use from the natural confusion with the preterite of “heave” (which I have used on page 16), corresponding with that between “lay” and the preterlte of “lie.” “Hove” is connected with “hover.” It is constantly used by Malory; and Gower, Chaucer, and Spenser employ it. It seems to me too good a word to be lost—by poets, at least.
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