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.