The Poetical Works of John Payne Definitive Edition in Two Volumes |
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A SONG BEFORE THE GATES OF DEATH. |
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 | The Poetical Works of John Payne |  |
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A SONG BEFORE THE GATES OF DEATH.
Sed satis est jam posse mori.
SMITE strings and fill the courts with thy lament!
Yea, let the singing thunder through the halls;
Wake all the echoes from the funeral walls,
From aisle to roof and porch to battlement!
Give forth thy sorrow till the roses' scent
Is blent for dole into the lilies' breath
And all the air is faint with balms of death,
Seeing the glory of the day is spent
And Death treads very nigh upon our feet.
Sing out and let the winds be filled with song!
Haply, the clangours of the chant shall greet
The great gods' senses, till the unheeding throng
Immortal hear in it the thunderous beat
Of Fate and tremble for remembered wrong.
Yea, let the singing thunder through the halls;
Wake all the echoes from the funeral walls,
From aisle to roof and porch to battlement!
Give forth thy sorrow till the roses' scent
Is blent for dole into the lilies' breath
And all the air is faint with balms of death,
Seeing the glory of the day is spent
And Death treads very nigh upon our feet.
Sing out and let the winds be filled with song!
Haply, the clangours of the chant shall greet
The great gods' senses, till the unheeding throng
Immortal hear in it the thunderous beat
Of Fate and tremble for remembered wrong.
Give me the vase. Drink deep as for the dead!
Drink Life and all its joys a long good-bye!
Surely, the wine shall hearten us to die.
Blood of the grape! Wine, that the earth has bled
From her slit painful veins, living and red
With all the deaths that have won life for thee!
I pour thee out for sign and memory,
For thanksgiving to life and goodlihead
Of the green earth and all her friendly hours:
The homage of the dead, that in her sods
Shall soon lie low and rot beneath the showers
Of the round year; yet, when the kind Fate nods,
Mayhap shall glorify the grass in flowers:
A godlike homage! For the dead are gods.
Drink Life and all its joys a long good-bye!
Surely, the wine shall hearten us to die.
Blood of the grape! Wine, that the earth has bled
From her slit painful veins, living and red
With all the deaths that have won life for thee!
I pour thee out for sign and memory,
For thanksgiving to life and goodlihead
Of the green earth and all her friendly hours:
The homage of the dead, that in her sods
Shall soon lie low and rot beneath the showers
Of the round year; yet, when the kind Fate nods,
Mayhap shall glorify the grass in flowers:
A godlike homage! For the dead are gods.
The dead are gods, seeing they lie and sleep,
Folded within the mantle of the night;
Ay, more than gods! For lo! the heavy might
Of Death enrounds them. Never do they weep
Nor smile sad smiles nor strain against the sweep
Of rugged Doom. There is no Fate for them,
Lying, close-companied, within the hem
Of the pale fateful god: the long years creep
Over their heads and may not break their rest.
Who would not choose to die, when life is worn
And wan with wrong unto the utterest?
The fierce gods chase us to the brink with scorn;
Yet smite the strings! We are not so forlorn
But we may die, seeing that death is best.
Folded within the mantle of the night;
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Of Death enrounds them. Never do they weep
Nor smile sad smiles nor strain against the sweep
Of rugged Doom. There is no Fate for them,
Lying, close-companied, within the hem
Of the pale fateful god: the long years creep
Over their heads and may not break their rest.
Who would not choose to die, when life is worn
And wan with wrong unto the utterest?
The fierce gods chase us to the brink with scorn;
Yet smite the strings! We are not so forlorn
But we may die, seeing that death is best.
Curse we the gods and die! Give me the lyre.
Now, Zeus, fling thunders from thine armouries
And Helios, rain down sunbolts from thy skies!
We die and fear you not and all your ire,
Impotent as the flaming of a fire
Against the dead. There is no hope for us,
Save of a sinking sweet and slumberous
Into the arms of rest. Pile up the pyre!
Great father Zeus, we reck not of thy grace:
It is thy wrath we crave with our last breath.
Look down in all thy terrors, King of Life!
Consume us with the splendours of thy face!
So shall the keen fire solve us from our strife
And our sad souls be ravished unto death.
Now, Zeus, fling thunders from thine armouries
And Helios, rain down sunbolts from thy skies!
We die and fear you not and all your ire,
Impotent as the flaming of a fire
Against the dead. There is no hope for us,
Save of a sinking sweet and slumberous
Into the arms of rest. Pile up the pyre!
Great father Zeus, we reck not of thy grace:
It is thy wrath we crave with our last breath.
Look down in all thy terrors, King of Life!
Consume us with the splendours of thy face!
So shall the keen fire solve us from our strife
And our sad souls be ravished unto death.
| The Poetical Works of John Payne | |