Hymn To Death.

Oh! could I hope the wise and pure in heart     Might hear my song without a frown, nor deem     My voice unworthy of the theme it tries,     I would take up the hymn to Death, and say     To the grim power: The world hath slandered thee     And mocked thee. On thy dim and shadowy brow     They place an iron crown, and call thee king     Of terrors, and the spoiler of the world,     Deadly assassin, that strik'st down the fair,     The loved, the good, that breathest on the lights     Of virtue set along the vale of life,     And they go out in darkness. I am come,     Not with reproaches, not with cries and prayers,     Such as have stormed thy stern, insensible ear     from the beginning. I am come to speak     Thy praises. True it is, that I have wept     Thy conquests, and may weep them yet again:     And thou from some I love wilt take a life     Dear to me as my own. Yet while the spell     Is on my spirit, and I talk with thee     In sight of all thy trophies, face to face,     Meet is it that my voice should utter forth     Thy nobler triumphs; I will teach the world     To thank thee. Who are thine accusers? Who?     The living! they who never felt thy power,     And know thee not. The curses of the wretch     Whose crimes are ripe, his sufferings when thy hand     Is on him, and the hour he dreads is come,     Are writ among thy praises. But the good,     Does he whom thy kind hand dismissed to peace,     Upbraid the gentle violence that took off     His fetters, and unbarred his prison cell?     Raise then the hymn to Death. Deliverer!     God hath anointed thee to free the oppressed     And crush the oppressor. When the armed chief,     The conqueror of nations, walks the world,     And it is changed beneath his feet, and all     Its kingdoms melt into one mighty realm,     Thou, while his head is loftiest and his heart     Blasphemes, imagining his own right hand     Almighty, thou dost set thy sudden grasp     Upon him, and the links of that strong chain     That bound mankind are crumbled; thou dost break     Sceptre and crown, and beat his throne to dust.     Then the earth shouts with gladness, and her tribes     Gather within their ancient bounds again.     Else had the mighty of the olden time,     Nimrod, Sesostris, or the youth who feigned     His birth from Libyan Ammon, smitten yet     The nations with a rod of iron, and driven     Their chariot o'er our necks. Thou dost avenge,     In thy good time, the wrongs of those who know     No other friend. Nor dost thou interpose     Only to lay the sufferer asleep,     Where he who made him wretched troubles not     His rest, thou dost strike down his tyrant too.     Oh, there is joy when hands that held the scourge     Drop lifeless, and the pitiless heart is cold.     Thou too dost purge from earth its horrible     And old idolatries; from the proud fanes     Each to his grave their priests go out, till none     Is left to teach their worship; then the fires     Of sacrifice are chilled, and the green moss     O'ercreeps their altars; the fallen images     Cumber the weedy courts, and for loud hymns,     Chanted by kneeling multitudes, the wind     Shrieks in the solitary aisles. When he     Who gives his life to guilt, and laughs at all     The laws that God or man has made, and round     Hedges his seat with power, and shines in wealth,     Lifts up his atheist front to scoff at Heaven,     And celebrates his shame in open day,     Thou, in the pride of all his crimes, cutt'st off     The horrible example. Touched by thine,     The extortioner's hard hand foregoes the gold     Wrung from the o'er-worn poor. The perjurer,     Whose tongue was lithe, e'en now, and voluble     Against his neighbour's life, and he who laughed     And leaped for joy to see a spotless fame     Blasted before his own foul calumnies,     Are smit with deadly silence. He, who sold     His conscience to preserve a worthless life,     Even while he hugs himself on his escape,     Trembles, as, doubly terrible, at length,     Thy steps o'ertake him, and there is no time     For parley, nor will bribes unclench thy grasp.     Oft, too, dost thou reform thy victim, long     Ere his last hour. And when the reveller,     Mad in the chase of pleasure, stretches on,     And strains each nerve, and clears the path of life     Like wind, thou point'st him to the dreadful goal,     And shak'st thy hour-glass in his reeling eye,     And check'st him in mid course. Thy skeleton hand     Shows to the faint of spirit the right path,     And he is warned, and fears to step aside.     Thou sett'st between the ruffian and his crime     Thy ghastly countenance, and his slack hand     Drops the drawn knife. But, oh, most fearfully     Dost thou show forth Heaven's justice, when thy shafts     Drink up the ebbing spirit, then the hard     Of heart and violent of hand restores     The treasure to the friendless wretch he wronged.     Then from the writhing bosom thou dost pluck     The guilty secret; lips, for ages sealed,     Are faithless to the dreadful trust at length,     And give it up; the felon's latest breath     Absolves the innocent man who bears his crime;     The slanderer, horror-smitten, and in tears,     Recalls the deadly obloquy he forged     To work his brother's ruin. Thou dost make     Thy penitent victim utter to the air     The dark conspiracy that strikes at life,     And aims to whelm the laws; ere yet the hour     Is come, and the dread sign of murder given.     Thus, from the first of time, hast thou been found     On virtue's side; the wicked, but for thee,     Had been too strong for the good; the great of earth     Had crushed the weak for ever. Schooled in guile     For ages, while each passing year had brought     Its baneful lesson, they had filled the world     With their abominations; while its tribes,     Trodden to earth, imbruted, and despoiled,     Had knelt to them in worship; sacrifice     Had smoked on many an altar, temple roofs     Had echoed with the blasphemous prayer and hymn:     But thou, the great reformer of the world,     Tak'st off the sons of violence and fraud     In their green pupilage, their lore half learned,     Ere guilt had quite o'errun the simple heart     God gave them at their birth, and blotted out     His image. Thou dost mark them flushed with hope,     As on the threshold of their vast designs     Doubtful and loose they stand, and strik'st them down.         *             *             *             *             *     Alas! I little thought that the stern power     Whose fearful praise I sung, would try me thus     Before the strain was ended. It must cease,     For he is in his grave who taught my youth     The art of verse, and in the bud of life     Offered me to the muses. Oh, cut off     Untimely! when thy reason in its strength,     Ripened by years of toil and studious search,     And watch of Nature's silent lessons, taught     Thy hand to practise best the lenient art     To which thou gavest thy laborious days,     And, last, thy life. And, therefore, when the earth     Received thee, tears were in unyielding eyes     And on hard cheeks, and they who deemed thy skill     Delayed their death-hour, shuddered and turned pale     When thou wert gone. This faltering verse, which thou     Shalt not, as wont, o'erlook, is all I have     To offer at thy grave, this, and the hope     To copy thy example, and to leave     A name of which the wretched shall not think     As of an enemy's, whom they forgive     As all forgive the dead. Rest, therefore, thou     Whose early guidance trained my infant steps,     Rest, in the bosom of God, till the brief sleep     Of death is over, and a happier life     Shall dawn to waken thine insensible dust.     Now thou art not, and yet the men whose guilt     Has wearied Heaven for vengeance, he who bears     False witness, he who takes the orphan's bread,     And robs the widow, he who spreads abroad     Polluted hands of mockery of prayer,     Are left to cumber earth. Shuddering I look     On what is written, yet I blot not out     The desultory numbers, let them stand,     The record of an idle revery.