 | The Knight and The Enchantress |  |
101
AH! WHAT AVAILS!
Ah! what avails—say what avails?
Death—the dim, shadowy Death prevails!
We struggle—but we struggling sink;
We shudder—yet approach the brink;
We murmur—still we must obey;
We marvel—but may ne'er gainsay!
Ah! what avails, then—what avails?
Death, the winged Spectre, still prevails!
Death—the dim, shadowy Death prevails!
We struggle—but we struggling sink;
We shudder—yet approach the brink;
We murmur—still we must obey;
We marvel—but may ne'er gainsay!
Ah! what avails, then—what avails?
Death, the winged Spectre, still prevails!
Monarchs! trust not in jewelled crowns,
In bannered fleets, and columned towns;
In ermined courts, or marshalled hosts,—
Beware—nor make these things your boasts;
Or be prepared to find your trust
Delivered to the yawning dust.
Ah! what avails, then—what avails?
Death, as a King of Kings, prevails!
In bannered fleets, and columned towns;
In ermined courts, or marshalled hosts,—
Beware—nor make these things your boasts;
102
Delivered to the yawning dust.
Ah! what avails, then—what avails?
Death, as a King of Kings, prevails!
Bold Warrior! take thy spear and targe,
And brunt the encounter and the charge?
The broad-sword and the breast-plate take;
Thou may'st march free in Victory's wake:
Yet must Death meet thee in a field,
Where vain shall be both spear and shield!
Ah! what avails, then—what avails?
Death—Death at bow and buckler rails!
And brunt the encounter and the charge?
The broad-sword and the breast-plate take;
Thou may'st march free in Victory's wake:
Yet must Death meet thee in a field,
Where vain shall be both spear and shield!
Ah! what avails, then—what avails?
Death—Death at bow and buckler rails!
Free Poet strew thy glorious lyre
With the ashes of its own deep fire;
Thy laurel-harvest thou may'st reap,
But ne'er from mortal doom escape!
Thy lays in other hearts may burn,
But warm not the embers in thine urn!
Ah! what avails, then—what avails?
Death o'er the Lords of Song prevails!
With the ashes of its own deep fire;
Thy laurel-harvest thou may'st reap,
But ne'er from mortal doom escape!
Thy lays in other hearts may burn,
But warm not the embers in thine urn!
103
Death o'er the Lords of Song prevails!
Oh maiden! from thy radiant brow
The flowers unbind which flush its snow,
Or leave them there a few short hours,
True prophets shall be those changed flowers—
“Behold us perished, dim, and pale;
Maiden! we tell thee thine own tale!”
Ah! what avails—say, what avails?
The inexorable Death prevails!
The flowers unbind which flush its snow,
Or leave them there a few short hours,
True prophets shall be those changed flowers—
“Behold us perished, dim, and pale;
Maiden! we tell thee thine own tale!”
Ah! what avails—say, what avails?
The inexorable Death prevails!
His fiat is unbreathed—unspoken—
But trophy dire, and ghastly token;
But fearful monument and mark
Proclaim his rule and victory dark.
All soon or late obey his law,
In doubt, in trembling, and in awe!
And what avails—ah! what avails?
For evermore great Death prevails!
But trophy dire, and ghastly token;
But fearful monument and mark
Proclaim his rule and victory dark.
All soon or late obey his law,
In doubt, in trembling, and in awe!
And what avails—ah! what avails?
For evermore great Death prevails!
104
In ambush and at 'vantage still,
He waits to work his fatal will;
And none shall 'scape the impartial blow,
Which lays the strong and feeble low;—
Which levels in one fleeting hour,
Pride, Meanness, Honour, Weakness, Power!
Ah! what avails—then what avails?
Death weighs all things in his dread scales!
He waits to work his fatal will;
And none shall 'scape the impartial blow,
Which lays the strong and feeble low;—
Which levels in one fleeting hour,
Pride, Meanness, Honour, Weakness, Power!
Ah! what avails—then what avails?
Death weighs all things in his dread scales!
Whate'er our frail defences be,
Death! they must prove the same to thee;
Of granite or of gossamer,
Without an effort or a stir,
Thou meltest them at once away,
And leavest us—denuded clay!
Ah! what avails, then—what avails?
Death still concludes all mortal tales.
Death! they must prove the same to thee;
Of granite or of gossamer,
Without an effort or a stir,
Thou meltest them at once away,
And leavest us—denuded clay!
Ah! what avails, then—what avails?
Death still concludes all mortal tales.
Each moment that o'er earth doth pass,
Thy scythe mows myriads down, like grass:
Thou—that art Lord of all that is;
Thy garment's hem the proudest kiss;
At thy low call, the loftiest quake;
On them thy yoke the freest take.
Ah! what avails, then—what avails?
Since Death for evermore prevails!
Thy scythe mows myriads down, like grass:
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Thy garment's hem the proudest kiss;
At thy low call, the loftiest quake;
On them thy yoke the freest take.
Ah! what avails, then—what avails?
Since Death for evermore prevails!
| The Knight and The Enchantress | |