I hope the wise and pure
Might hear this ode without a frown, nor deem
My voice unworthy of the theme it tries,
I would take the pen to Death, and say
To the grim power, The world has slandered
And mocked you.
On your dim and shady brow
They place a steel crown, and call you king
Of terrors, and ruiner of the world,
Deadly assassin, that strikes down the fair,
The loved, the good; that breathes on the lights
Of virtue along the river of life,
So they go out in darkness.
I have come,
Not with accusations, not with cries and prayers,
Such as have stormed your stern irrational ear
From the beginning. I have come to speak
Your praises.
I have wept
At your conquests, and may weep again:
From some I love you have taken life
Dear to me as my own.
While your grip
Is on my mind, and I talk with you
In view of all your trophies, face to face,
My voice will utter
Your nobler triumphs: I will teach the world
To thank you. Who are your accusers?
The living! They never felt your power,
And do not know you!
The curses of the sinner
Whose crimes are ripe, his suffering when your hand
Is on him, and the hour he dreads has come,
Are written among your praises. But the good:
Does he who your kind hand dismissed to peace,
Praise the gentle violence that took off
His chains, and unlocked his prison cell?
Raise the Hymn to Death. Deliverer!
God has anointed you to free the oppressed
And crush the oppressor.
When the armed general,
Conqueror of nations, walks the earth,
And it changes beneath his feet, and all
Its borders melt into one mighty empire,
You, while his head is lofty, and his heart
Is heretical, imagining his own hand
Almighty, set upon him your harsh grasp,
And the strong links of that mighty chain
That bind mankind are destroyed; you break
Sceptre and crown, and beat his throne to dust.
Then the earth shouts with joy, and the nations
Gather within their ancestral lands again.
You purge from earth its horrible
And old idolatries; from the proud flames
Each to his grave their priests go, til none
Are left to teach their lies;
Then the fires
Of sacrifice are chilled, and the green moss
Covers their altars; the fallen images
Burden the weedy courts, and for loud hymns,
Chanted by kneeling crowds, the chiming winds
Cry in lone aisles.