Classic and Contemporary Poetry
HYMN TO DEATH, by WILLIAM HERBERT (1778-1847) Poet's Biography First Line: What art thou, o relentless visitant Last Line: After his likeness, and be satisfied. Subject(s): Death; Dead, The | ||||||||
WHAT art thou, O relentless visitant, Who with an earlier or later call, Dost summon every spirit that abides In this our fleshly tabernacle! Death! The end of worldly sorrowing and joy, That breakest short the fantasies of youth, The proud man's glory, and the lingering chain Of hopeless destitution! The dark gate And entrance into that untrodden realm, Where we must all hereafter pass! Art thou An evil or a boon? that some shrink back With shuddering horror from the dreaded range Of thine unmeasured empire, others plunge Unbidden, goaded by the sense of ill, Or weariness of being, into the abyss! And should we call those blest who journey on Upon this motley theatre, through life Successful, unto the allotted term Of threescore years and ten, even so strong, That they exceed it? or those, who are brought down Before their prime, and, like the winged tribes, Ephemeral, children of the vernal beam, Just flutter round the sweets of life and die? -- An awful term thou art; and still must be, To all who journey to that bourne, from whence Return is none, and from whose distant shore No rumor has come back of good or ill, Save to the faithful, and even they but view Obscurely things unknown and unconceived, And judge not even, by what sense the bliss, Which they imagine, shall hereafter be Enjoy'd or apprehended. And shall man Unbidden rush on that mysterious change, Which, whether he believe or mock the creed Of those who trust, awaits him, and must bring Or good, or evil, or annihilate The sense of being, and involve him quite In darkness upon which no dawn shall break! -- Fearful and dreaded must thy bidding be To such as have no light within, vouchsafed From the Most High, no reason for their hope; But go from this firm world, into the void Where no material body may reside, By fleshly cares polluted and unmeet For spiritual joy; and ne'er have known, Or knowing, have behind them cast the love Of their Redeemer, who thine awful bonds, Grim Potentate, has broken, and made smooth The deathbed of the just through faith in Him. How oft, at midnight, have I fix'd my gaze Upon the blue unclouded firmament, With thousand spheres illumined, each perchance The powerful centre of revolving worlds! Until, by strange excitement stirr'd, the mind Has long'd for dissolution, so it might bring Knowledge, for which the spirit is athirst, Open the darkling stores of hidden time, And show the marvel of eternal things, Which, in the bosom of immensity, Wheel round the God of Nature. Vain desire! Illusive aspirations! daring hope! Worm that I am, who told me I should know More than is needful, or hereafter dive Into the counsel of the God of worlds? Or ever, in the cycle unconceived Of wonderous eternity, arrive Beyond the narrow sphere, by Him assign'd To be my dwelling wheresoe'er? Enough To work in trembling my salvation here, Waiting thy summons, stern, mysterious Power, Who to thy silent realm hast call'd away All those whom nature twined around my breast In my fond infancy, and left me here Denuded of their love! Where are ye gone, And shall we wake from the long sleep of death, To know each other, conscious of the ties That link'd our souls together, and draw down The secret dew-drop on my cheek, whene'er I turn unto the past? or will the change That comes to all, renew the alter'd spirit To other thoughts, making the strife or love Of short mortality a shadow past, Equal illusion? Father, whose strong mind Was my support, whose kindness as the spring Which never tarries! Mother, of all forms That smiled upon my budding thoughts most dear! Brothers! and thou, mine only sister! gone To the still grave, making the memory Of all my earliest time, a thing wiped out, Save from the glowing spot, which lives as fresh In my heart's core, as when we last in joy Were gather'd round the blithe paternal board! Where are ye? Must your kindred spirits sleep For many a thousand years, till by the trump Roused to new being? Will affections then Burn inwardly, or all our loves gone by Seem but a speck upon the roll of time, Unworthy our regard? -- This is too hard For mortals to unravel, nor has He Vouchsafed a clue to man, who bade us trust To Him our weakness, and we shall wake up After his likeness, and be satisfied. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A FRIEND KILLED IN THE WAR by ANTHONY HECHT FOR JAMES MERRILL: AN ADIEU by ANTHONY HECHT TARANTULA: OR THE DANCE OF DEATH by ANTHONY HECHT CHAMPS D?ÇÖHONNEUR by ERNEST HEMINGWAY NOTE TO REALITY by TONY HOAGLAND AETIUS THE UNBELIEVER by WILLIAM HERBERT (1778-1847) |
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