Love and Death

"He dies in youth who to the gods is dear."
— Menander

Brethren at one time, Love and Death, did Fate
Of yore ingenerate.
Nought fairer here below

Hath this our world, nor have the stars, to show.
Joys from the one do flow,
The greatest joys that we
Can in the ocean of existence see.
The other every pain
And every woe bids wane.
A maiden fair of face,
Sweet to behold, not such
As doth imagine this our craven race,
She likes to join full oft
The youthful god of love,
And both then fly aloft,
The paths of earth above,
Chief comfort of each wise and noble heart;
Nor was a heart more wise
Than when by love inspired;
Nor in a braver mood
This life of woe and anguish to despise,
Nor for a lord more high
Than this one is, each danger to defy:
For where thou giv'st thine aid,
Love, courage soon is made,
Or doth revive; in noble actions wise
And not, as it is wont, in idle mind,
Becomes our humankind.

When in the heart profound
Ariseth young and
A weary, languid longing for the grave
Our bosom doth inspire:
How, I know not; but such
Of real love the first effect is found.
Perchance our eyes we cast
Upon the desert of the world aghast,
And mortal man his habitation loathes
Without that joy supreme
Whereof his soul doth dream;
But in his heart foreboding tempests wild
From that same joy, he sighs for quiet mild
And for a harbour's ease
That should the storm appease,
Of which he felt such wild emotions vast.

And when with vivid fire
The passion burns the heart,
And an imperishable empire gains:
How many times, O Death,
With an intense desire
The lover prays thee to conclude his pains!
How oft by night, how oft
By day, impatient of his weary frame,
He would have called his destiny divine,
If he had ne'er arisen,
Nor seen again the unpitying planets shine!
And oft when tolled the deep funereal knell,
And sang the dirge beside the sable hearse
That bears the dead to their eternal night,
With many burning sighs
From deepest heart he envied the repose
Of him who went among the tombs to dwell.
Even they of low degree:
The tiller of the soil,
All strength ignoring that from wisdom flows.
The tender maiden, full of fear and shame,
Who at the very name
Of Death was wont to quake:
The gloomy horrors of the dreaded grave
Oft overcome with fortitude most brave,
Long thoughtful of the means
That end all earthly woes,
And in uncultured mind
The wondrous beauty of expiring find.
So much to death inclined
The power of love appears; and many a time,
To such a height the furious tempest risen
That it breaks through the trammels of its prison,
The body worn and frail
Yields to the storm, and Death we see prevail
Even in that guise through her fraternal power;
Or Love so deeply stirs the heart to ire,
That by their deed the rustic, void of guile,
And tender maiden fair
In agonised despair
Their lives destroy when youth doth on them smile.
The world doth mock their end,
To whom may Heaven peace and old age send.

To fervent, to sublime,
To daring souls august,
May one or both of ye kind Fortune yield,

O friends and lords, and shield
Of this our humankind,
Ye to whose power no rival power we find
Throughout the world, where we our eyes may cast,
Unless in Fate, so terrible and vast.
And thou, whom even from earliest days of yore
I honour and implore,
Thou beauteous Death, alone
Of all the world to earthly woes benign!
If e'er to thee I've shown
My love in song, if to thy sway divine
I tried to expiate
Unthankful scorn and hate,
Delay no more, incline
To an unwonted prayer,
Close from the light's harsh glare
These tear-worn eyes, O sovereign of our fate!
Me thou shalt find, whatever be the day
When at my moan thou shalt thy wings display,
With an undaunted brow,
'Gainst Fortune fortified,
The ruthless hand that with my guileless gore
Is crimsoned o'er and o'er.
Not covering with praise,
Not blessing, as the ways
Of men dictate, whom ancient errors guide;
All idle hopes that may console them now
Like children in their grief,
And every comfort brief
I'll spurn: nought else than thee in any age
Implore my woes to assuage;
Hope but that day's relief
When I, serene, my head can lay to rest
Upon thy virgin breast.