 | The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan |  |
II. Balder and Death.
‘O Death, pale Death, thro’ many a lonely land
My feet have follow'd thee;
Sisters and brothers stricken by thy hand
Oft have I stoop'd to see:
‘To kiss the little children on their biers
So innocent and sweet,
To bless the old men wearied out with years
Wrapt in thy winding-sheet.
My feet have follow'd thee;
Sisters and brothers stricken by thy hand
Oft have I stoop'd to see:
‘To kiss the little children on their biers
So innocent and sweet,
To bless the old men wearied out with years
Wrapt in thy winding-sheet.
‘To look into thine eyes, to drink thy breath,
I have cried with a weary cry:
Prayers I have said to the great gods, O Death,
While thou hast darken'd by.
I have cried with a weary cry:
Prayers I have said to the great gods, O Death,
While thou hast darken'd by.
‘Thy mark is on the flower and on the tree,
And on the beast and the bird,
Thy shade is on the mountains, even the sea
By thy sad foot is stirred.
And on the beast and the bird,
Thy shade is on the mountains, even the sea
By thy sad foot is stirred.
‘Slayer thou art of all my soul deems fair,
Thou saddenest the sun,—
Of all things on the earth and in the air,
O Death, thou sparest none.
Thou saddenest the sun,—
Of all things on the earth and in the air,
O Death, thou sparest none.
‘And therefore have I sought with prayers and sighs
To speak with thee a space!’
Bright Balder in the hollow rayless eyes
Look'd with a fearless face.
To speak with thee a space!’
Bright Balder in the hollow rayless eyes
Look'd with a fearless face.
The phantom darken'd 'neath the clay cold moon
And seem'd to shrink in woe,
But Balder named his name and wove the rune,
And would not let him go.
And seem'd to shrink in woe,
But Balder named his name and wove the rune,
And would not let him go.
‘O Death! pale Death! thou hast a lovelier name,
Who gave that name to thee?
By the high gods, by that from which they came,
Thy mouth must answer me!’
Who gave that name to thee?
By the high gods, by that from which they came,
Thy mouth must answer me!’
Death answer'd not, but mystically bright,
His shadowy features grew,
And on his brow the chilly lamps of night
Sprinkled their glistening dew,
His shadowy features grew,
And on his brow the chilly lamps of night
Sprinkled their glistening dew,
And Balder wonder'd, for those lights above
Seem'd shining down on him,
And death's pale face grew as the face of Love,
Yet more divinely dim.
Seem'd shining down on him,
And death's pale face grew as the face of Love,
Yet more divinely dim.
‘O Death, pale Death!
Who gave thee that sweet name,
Yet sent thee down to slay poor things of breath,
And turn men's hearts to flame?
Who gave thee that sweet name,
Yet sent thee down to slay poor things of breath,
And turn men's hearts to flame?
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‘Who gave thee life and cast thy lot below
With those sad slaying eyes?’
Death pointed with a hand as white as snow
Up to the moonlit skies.
With those sad slaying eyes?’
Death pointed with a hand as white as snow
Up to the moonlit skies.
‘Who sent thee here where men and beasts have birth?’
Death trembled and was still.
‘What drew thee down on my beloved Earth,
To wither up and kill?’
Death trembled and was still.
‘What drew thee down on my beloved Earth,
To wither up and kill?’
Death answer'd not, but pointed once again
Up thro' the starry shine;
And Balder question'd with a quick new pain,
‘My kin? the gods divine?
Up thro' the starry shine;
And Balder question'd with a quick new pain,
‘My kin? the gods divine?
Death answer'd not, but gazed on Balder now
With strange and questioning gleam—
His eyes were soft in sorrow and his brow
Was wonderful with dream.
With strange and questioning gleam—
His eyes were soft in sorrow and his brow
Was wonderful with dream.
‘Speak to me, brother, if thou art not dumb;
Speak to my soul, O Death!’
The thin lips flutter, but no answer hath come,
No sigh, no sound, no breath.
Speak to my soul, O Death!’
The thin lips flutter, but no answer hath come,
No sigh, no sound, no breath.
Yet on the brow of Death there lives a light
Like starlight shed on snow,
The fatal face grows beautiful and bright
With some celestial woe.
Like starlight shed on snow,
The fatal face grows beautiful and bright
With some celestial woe.
And round the shadowy cheeks there softly swim
Thin threads of silken hair,
And Balder sees the form world-worn and dim
Hath once been young and fair.
Thin threads of silken hair,
And Balder sees the form world-worn and dim
Hath once been young and fair.
And as they sit together in the night,
Hand in hand, mingling breath,
The fingers white of the cold starry light
Smooth the sad hair of Death.
Hand in hand, mingling breath,
The fingers white of the cold starry light
Smooth the sad hair of Death.
| The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan | |