The Poetical Works of John Payne Definitive Edition in Two Volumes |
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A FUNERAL SONG FOR THÉOPHILE GAUTIER. |
 | The Poetical Works of John Payne |  |
A FUNERAL SONG FOR THÉOPHILE GAUTIER.
WHAT shall our song be for the mighty dead,
For this our master that is ours no more?
Lo! for the dead was none of those that wore
The laurel lightly on a heedless head,
Chanting a song of idle lustihead
Among the sun-kissed roses on the shore:
This our belovèd, that is gone before,
Was of the race of heroes battle-bred
That, from the dawn-white to the sunset-red,
Fought in the front of war.
For this our master that is ours no more?
Lo! for the dead was none of those that wore
The laurel lightly on a heedless head,
Chanting a song of idle lustihead
Among the sun-kissed roses on the shore:
This our belovèd, that is gone before,
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That, from the dawn-white to the sunset-red,
Fought in the front of war.
Lo! this was he that in the weary time,
In many a devious and darkling way,
Through dusk of doubt and thunder of dismay,
Held our hearts hopeful with his resonant rhyme,
Lifting our lives above the smoke and slime
Into some splendid summer far away,
Where the sun brimmed the chalice of the day
With gold of heaven and the accordant chime
Of woods and waters to the calm sublime
Carolled in roundelay.
In many a devious and darkling way,
Through dusk of doubt and thunder of dismay,
Held our hearts hopeful with his resonant rhyme,
Lifting our lives above the smoke and slime
Into some splendid summer far away,
Where the sun brimmed the chalice of the day
With gold of heaven and the accordant chime
Of woods and waters to the calm sublime
Carolled in roundelay.
This was our poet in the front of faith;
Our singer gone to his most sweet repose,
Sped to his summer from our time of snows
And winter winding all the world with death.
Who shall make moan or utter mournful breath
That this our noblest one no longer knows
Our evil place of toil and many woes,
Lying at the last where no voice entereth?
Who shall weave for him other than a wreath
Of laurel and of rose?
Our singer gone to his most sweet repose,
Sped to his summer from our time of snows
And winter winding all the world with death.
Who shall make moan or utter mournful breath
That this our noblest one no longer knows
Our evil place of toil and many woes,
Lying at the last where no voice entereth?
Who shall weave for him other than a wreath
Of laurel and of rose?
Hence with the cypress and the funeral song!
Let not the shrill sound of our mourning mar
His triumph that upon the Immortals' car
Passes, star-crowned; but from the laurelled throng,
That stands await, let every voice prolong
A noise of jubilance that from afar
Shall hail in heaven the new majestic star
That rises with a radiance calm and strong,
To burn for ever unobscured among
The courts where the Gods are.
Let not the shrill sound of our mourning mar
His triumph that upon the Immortals' car
Passes, star-crowned; but from the laurelled throng,
That stands await, let every voice prolong
A noise of jubilance that from afar
Shall hail in heaven the new majestic star
That rises with a radiance calm and strong,
To burn for ever unobscured among
The courts where the Gods are.
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Ay, let the hautboys and the clarions blow,
The air rain roses and the sky resound
With harpings of his peers that stand around,
What while the splendours of the triumph go
Along the streets and through the portico.
I, too, who loved the dead, as from the ground
The glow-worm loves the star, will stand, browbound
With winter-roses, in the sunset-glow,
And make thin music, fluting soft and low
Above his funeral mound.
The air rain roses and the sky resound
With harpings of his peers that stand around,
What while the splendours of the triumph go
Along the streets and through the portico.
I, too, who loved the dead, as from the ground
The glow-worm loves the star, will stand, browbound
With winter-roses, in the sunset-glow,
And make thin music, fluting soft and low
Above his funeral mound.
I, too, who loved him, from beyond the sea,
Add my weak note to that sublime acclaim
That, soaring with the silver of his name,
Shall shake the heavens with splendid harmony,
Till all who listen bend in awe the knee,
Seeing a giant's spirit, like a flame,
Remounting to that heaven from which it came,
And many weep for very shame to see
The majesty they knew not till 'twas free
From earthly praise or blame.
Add my weak note to that sublime acclaim
That, soaring with the silver of his name,
Shall shake the heavens with splendid harmony,
Till all who listen bend in awe the knee,
Seeing a giant's spirit, like a flame,
Remounting to that heaven from which it came,
And many weep for very shame to see
The majesty they knew not till 'twas free
From earthly praise or blame.
Hail, O our master! From the hastening hours
This one we set above its grey-veiled peers,
Armed with thy name against the night that nears.
We crown it with the glory of the flowers,
We wind it with all magic that is ours
Of song and hope and jewel-coloured tears;
We charm it with our love from taint of fears;
We set it high against the sky that lowers,
To burn, a love-sign, from the topmost towers,
Through glad and sorry years.
This one we set above its grey-veiled peers,
Armed with thy name against the night that nears.
We crown it with the glory of the flowers,
We wind it with all magic that is ours
Of song and hope and jewel-coloured tears;
We charm it with our love from taint of fears;
We set it high against the sky that lowers,
To burn, a love-sign, from the topmost towers,
Through glad and sorry years.
| The Poetical Works of John Payne | |