 | On Viol and Flute |  |
79
ENCOMIUM MORTIS.
Our toil and trouble done,
Before a breeze we run
Into the setting sun,
Over a pearly sea;
The ring of misty light
Round us is infinite;
Beyond our utmost sight
What mysteries may be?
Before a breeze we run
Into the setting sun,
Over a pearly sea;
The ring of misty light
Round us is infinite;
Beyond our utmost sight
What mysteries may be?
No birds' wings, fluttering o'er
The waves from shore to shore,
Disturb the sheeny floor
That spreads from day to night;
We, gazing each to each,
See silent lips beseech,
See eyes that strain to reach
The future out of sight.
The waves from shore to shore,
Disturb the sheeny floor
That spreads from day to night;
We, gazing each to each,
See silent lips beseech,
See eyes that strain to reach
The future out of sight.
80
And like a wind that shakes
The breast of silver lakes,
The only sound that breaks
The silence of the hour,
Comes from the oaken lip
Where waters stream and slip
Around our gliding ship,
Like green leaves round a flower.
The breast of silver lakes,
The only sound that breaks
The silence of the hour,
Comes from the oaken lip
Where waters stream and slip
Around our gliding ship,
Like green leaves round a flower.
But downwards, still and slow,
We see the red sun go
Where Tethys waits below;
And now, along the deep,
He slants, a scarlet ball,
While deeper shadows fall,
And over us the pall
Of twilight falls, like sleep.
We see the red sun go
Where Tethys waits below;
And now, along the deep,
He slants, a scarlet ball,
While deeper shadows fall,
And over us the pall
Of twilight falls, like sleep.
Silence is absolute,
Till one of us, long mute,
Touches a slender flute
With lips and fingers wan;
Over the silver stops
His pale hand clings and drops,
As through the bulrush-tops,
Falters a dying swan.
Till one of us, long mute,
Touches a slender flute
With lips and fingers wan;
Over the silver stops
His pale hand clings and drops,
As through the bulrush-tops,
Falters a dying swan.
81
And so, while waves are whist,
We bear an altar, kissed
By stars of amethyst,
And rimmed with violet stone;
And while the flutist plays
Songs of forgotten days,
This glimmering gem we raise,
Hard by the helm alone.
We bear an altar, kissed
By stars of amethyst,
And rimmed with violet stone;
And while the flutist plays
Songs of forgotten days,
This glimmering gem we raise,
Hard by the helm alone.
Then from a scented store,
Piled up long years before
On some dim Indian shore,
Where all the winds are spice,
A priest with languid limbs
Pours over all the rims
Rich oil, and dust that swims,
And grains of golden rice.
Piled up long years before
On some dim Indian shore,
Where all the winds are spice,
A priest with languid limbs
Pours over all the rims
Rich oil, and dust that swims,
And grains of golden rice.
Then while we gaze on him,
And all the west grows dim,
A wild and wailing hymn
Goes up to night from us;
The while with fan and fire
He lights the odorous pyre,
Till all the gums aspire
In grey smoke luminous.
And all the west grows dim,
A wild and wailing hymn
Goes up to night from us;
The while with fan and fire
He lights the odorous pyre,
Till all the gums aspire
In grey smoke luminous.
82
Then joining hand to hand,
A worn-out weary band,
Around the flame we stand,
And sing, with failing breath,
The last sweet song we can,
While faint and pale and wan,
We render, man by man,
Our hearts away to Death.
A worn-out weary band,
Around the flame we stand,
And sing, with failing breath,
The last sweet song we can,
While faint and pale and wan,
We render, man by man,
Our hearts away to Death.
Oh gentle Death! no more
We fly from shore to shore,
The hopes that filled our hearts before
Are faded, past and gone;
To-morrow and to-day
Are merged in yesterday;
Our souls are fain to fly away
Where no sun ever shone.
We fly from shore to shore,
The hopes that filled our hearts before
Are faded, past and gone;
To-morrow and to-day
Are merged in yesterday;
Our souls are fain to fly away
Where no sun ever shone.
Like weary men and weak,
Who find not what they seek,
And shrink because the world is bleak
And bites them to the core,
And only ask to lie
Where no rough winds pass by,
To live their lives out there, and die,
And never wander more.
Who find not what they seek,
And shrink because the world is bleak
And bites them to the core,
And only ask to lie
Where no rough winds pass by,
To live their lives out there, and die,
And never wander more.
83
So our proud hearts are come
To stand before thee dumb;
We ask no rich millenium,
But only rest and sleep;
The time and scope of men
Is threescore years and ten;
The flower of passion wastes, and then
A bitter grain they reap.
To stand before thee dumb;
We ask no rich millenium,
But only rest and sleep;
The time and scope of men
Is threescore years and ten;
The flower of passion wastes, and then
A bitter grain they reap.
But thou, oh! steep our eyes,—
Now wild with memories,—
In poppy draughts where slumber lies,
And no harsh wakings are;
Here on the polished sea
Our place of sleep should be!
How sweet to fade away to thee
Beneath so still a star!
Now wild with memories,—
In poppy draughts where slumber lies,
And no harsh wakings are;
Here on the polished sea
Our place of sleep should be!
How sweet to fade away to thee
Beneath so still a star!
The sky like some great flower
That feels the earth's dim power,
And closes inward hour by hour,
Grows nearer while we speak!
Lo! surely, sea and sky
Will mingle by-and-by,
In league to crush out utterly
Our wasted lives and weak!
That feels the earth's dim power,
And closes inward hour by hour,
Grows nearer while we speak!
Lo! surely, sea and sky
Will mingle by-and-by,
In league to crush out utterly
Our wasted lives and weak!
84
Our very eyes grow dim!
O Death, the bubbles swim
Along the sea, and float and skim
The hollows of our ship;
Each bubble bears the breath
Of some man fallen to death,
And lo! no brother sorroweth,
As out of life they slip.
O Death, the bubbles swim
Along the sea, and float and skim
The hollows of our ship;
Each bubble bears the breath
Of some man fallen to death,
And lo! no brother sorroweth,
As out of life they slip.
We falter and forget!
Our sun of life has set;
Why should we strain around us yet
This threadbare robe of breath?
Our voices one by one
Fail in the hymn begun;
Our last sad song of life is done,
Our first sweet song of Death!
Our sun of life has set;
Why should we strain around us yet
This threadbare robe of breath?
Our voices one by one
Fail in the hymn begun;
Our last sad song of life is done,
Our first sweet song of Death!
| On Viol and Flute | |