Poems by the late John Bethune With a sketch of the author's life, by his brother |
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WARNINGS OF DEATH IN EVERY THING. |
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 | Poems by the late John Bethune |  |
WARNINGS OF DEATH IN EVERY THING.
Poets have sung of music's melting breath
Warning the pious man, at dead of night,
Of thy approach grim king, unwelcome Death!
Whose arrows flee in darkness and in light.
And oft the owlet, with unsocial scream,
Hath made the soundest sleeper quickly start,
Who, wakening, pale and shivering from his dream,
Feels the dread warning curdle at his heart.
And oft at midnight's stirless hour of dread
The sheeted phantom, or the shadowy wraith,
Are said to pace the room with noiseless tread,
As heralds of their king, grim-visaged Death.
Warning the pious man, at dead of night,
Of thy approach grim king, unwelcome Death!
Whose arrows flee in darkness and in light.
And oft the owlet, with unsocial scream,
Hath made the soundest sleeper quickly start,
Who, wakening, pale and shivering from his dream,
Feels the dread warning curdle at his heart.
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The sheeted phantom, or the shadowy wraith,
Are said to pace the room with noiseless tread,
As heralds of their king, grim-visaged Death.
But granting that each legend were a truth—
That all the stories which have yet been told
By credulous age, to frighten timid youth,
Were as veracious as the mountains old—
These dark foreboding messengers proclaim
No new discovery—tell no wondrous tale:
Ages and elements have taught the same
In plainer language than the phantom pale.
That all the stories which have yet been told
By credulous age, to frighten timid youth,
Were as veracious as the mountains old—
These dark foreboding messengers proclaim
No new discovery—tell no wondrous tale:
Ages and elements have taught the same
In plainer language than the phantom pale.
Ah, who can doubt the truth! since all beneath
Tells us of stern and uncompounding Death.
Go look abroad upon the smiling earth,
Behold the violet's bloom, the daisy's birth—
Are they not fair as thee? Go look again,
And see them wither'd from the frozen plain.
Look on the louring clouds and murky air,
Lurks not the spirit of contagion there?
The low damp breeze, with pestilential breath,
Whispers “Beware! I sow the seeds of death!”
Go to the revel—look upon the ball,
The music and the songs which gladden all,
Though each musician had a siren's breath,
Are voices from the grave, and tell of Death.
Tells us of stern and uncompounding Death.
Go look abroad upon the smiling earth,
Behold the violet's bloom, the daisy's birth—
Are they not fair as thee? Go look again,
And see them wither'd from the frozen plain.
Look on the louring clouds and murky air,
Lurks not the spirit of contagion there?
The low damp breeze, with pestilential breath,
Whispers “Beware! I sow the seeds of death!”
Go to the revel—look upon the ball,
The music and the songs which gladden all,
Though each musician had a siren's breath,
Are voices from the grave, and tell of Death.
If still you doubt, then leave the earth with me,
And con the sterner morals of the sea,
Behold in awful swell the mountain wave,
And hear Death's genius from that tumbling grave,
While arching with white foam the dark abyss,
His dreadful warnings to your senses hiss;
And, to enforce the appalling voice with deeds,
Behold your brethren dash'd ashore like weeds—
Though erst as full of life and strength as you;
And what is done, he oft again shall do!
And con the sterner morals of the sea,
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And hear Death's genius from that tumbling grave,
While arching with white foam the dark abyss,
His dreadful warnings to your senses hiss;
And, to enforce the appalling voice with deeds,
Behold your brethren dash'd ashore like weeds—
Though erst as full of life and strength as you;
And what is done, he oft again shall do!
Turn from the deep, where his dread voice is loud,
Where daily, hourly, he spreads forth a shroud
Upon the whirlpool's breast of dancing foam:
Flee from these terrors to thy peaceful home,
And there, even there, the demon will attend,
His whispers with your happiest hours to blend.
Your very pride hath given the grisly seer
A power to prophecy his own career—
There Genius, wedded to laborious Art,
Hath toil'd to shape his warning to your heart.
Where daily, hourly, he spreads forth a shroud
Upon the whirlpool's breast of dancing foam:
Flee from these terrors to thy peaceful home,
And there, even there, the demon will attend,
His whispers with your happiest hours to blend.
Your very pride hath given the grisly seer
A power to prophecy his own career—
There Genius, wedded to laborious Art,
Hath toil'd to shape his warning to your heart.
Behold the lofty gallery's pictured wall,
And see the smiling lip—the changeless eye—
Pale brow—pure cheek—athletic form—and all
The grave resigns to art of ancestry,
And say, Does not the pantomime of death
Press solemnly and deep these words of fear—
“Poor fleeting race, who perish with each breath,
Soon all your charms shall only sadden here.”
And see the smiling lip—the changeless eye—
Pale brow—pure cheek—athletic form—and all
The grave resigns to art of ancestry,
And say, Does not the pantomime of death
Press solemnly and deep these words of fear—
“Poor fleeting race, who perish with each breath,
Soon all your charms shall only sadden here.”
| Poems by the late John Bethune | |