A BALLADE OF DEATH.
The furious storm takes wing;
Quenched is the fiery ray;
And broken the frosty air's sting,
For these hold mutable sway:
Pain puts an end to its stay;
Ills have a time to endure;
One thing will not heal nor allay:
For death there is no cure!
For the good that the future may bring,
We strive to exist to-day.
With the veering vane we swing,
When fate sweeps fortune away:
Seldom will misery slay;
And ever will hope allure;
Yet one thing endureth for aye,
For death there is no cure!
Though life be an exquisite thing,
Death shatters the curious clay;
Though in frenzy we cry and we cling,
There is none who can save us that day:
So life is devoured as a prey,
And in darkness for aye will immure;
And silence for ever hath sway:
For death there is no cure!
Envoi.
O man, be ye sad, be ye gay,
In the end there is one thing sure:
Make out of life what ye may,
For death there is no cure!
Hunter MacCulloch.