The Gift Of The Gods

Full many gifts the gods have in their keeping, Wherefore we mortals sue with prayer and hymn Piercing the heaven, bevond our visión dim. And be the high gods neither deaf nor sleeping And be they piteous of man'i brief day, A little while relentlng their stern power, A little while relaxing their fierce sway, They smile on us who weep and rage and cower, And Krant the gifts we pray. The gift of joy, the gift of love's sweet pleasure ; The gift of sin unpunished ; lust uostained ; Shame unabashed; and deadly wrong unpained ; The gift of hoary yeais ; of heavy treasure ; Of fame undying ; power that doth grow Great as the gods' ; the gift of words that burn Dull hearts to daring : beauty's trancing show ; The gift of song that unto heaven doth yearn ;- All these the gods bestow. All these they grant in pity and dervislon- Knowing the worth of that wherefore we pray With greedy cares, grown greedier by delay And the base selfishness of earthly visión.- All these they grant, and get fit praise thereby ; But one great gift thev guara with jealous care, Kntrusted to the hands of gods most high, Who heed, perchance. the pleading of despair, But hear no faluter cry. All pray alike for it; the high and lowly, The young and old, the scholar and the slave; None is so strong this gteat gift not to crave, None is so joyful, none so base, so holy. Three are the gods whose power it Is to bless The souls that pray for this with yearning breath, - Three gods wbo share unequal, more and less. In thetr great guerdon,- Love. and Sleep, and Death,- -The gift,- Forgetfulness. All riche8 fade before its worth ; all treasure That hides within the earth can buy it not Ambition dies, fame hard-won is forgot, Love's deepest joys are nothlng to lts pleasure. For these we pray when life is strange and fair, But when its meaning grow large to our gaze And we are touehed of grief- what piteous prayer, Careless of all we once deemed good, we raise For respite from despair ! Most pitiful is Sleep. When!silent sorrow Cometh to hearte unknown of her before, And takes her dweiling there, and they implore Some brief forgetfulness of Sleep to borrow, Oft she is gracious ; to her voiceless streams She leadeth them, where fruitless flowers grow ; And all the hard, hot pain forgotten seems, No hunger for lost happiness they know,- The dead days live in dreams. Most pitiful is Sleep ; but her sweet power Is least, of the three gods, in the great gift; And all her pity cannot make less swift The flight of merciful oblivion's hour. And when the sorrow-stricken wake, and slow Cometh again the bitter, erushing pain, And Sleep no longer may avail,- then flow Frcm her dim eyes tears thick as summer rain, And from them poppies grow. The poppy and the vine- Sleep's gifts to mortals, Whereby all wandering griefs she doth reclaim, And maketh day and darkness all the same Unto the throng about her shadowy portals. " Eat of my seed,'' the flower smiles, - the vine, - " Drink and forget your grieving and your pain ! Why will ye hug your misery? Why pine Wben the grape tempts its eager juice to drain ? Drink ! and ye are divine !" And many hearken to the bidding gladly, And vield themselves unto the poppiedbalm And float their souls in slumber s languorous calm, And know not if the days go bright or sadly. No joy of praise is theire, no sung of blame, They mind not if men pity or deride. They care no more for good or evil fame, With peace ignoble are they satisfied.- So sleep's gifts work them shame. But somewhat yet her power wanes and falters, For not forever shall the flower and vine Pour from their heart's Forgetfulness divine, For those that lay their their souls upon her altars. The dreams will fade, the name will wake and weep, Tbe sin they live in shows hateful thing; They thrust away the gifts with curses deep, A little while their helpless hands they wring,- Then sink again to sleep. Greater than Sleep la Death. The souls he leadeth Drink of Forgetfulness the deepest draught And are at rest forever. Who hath quaffed That cup Lethean, and of pain yet heeaeth ! No mornlng bringeth waking to their eyes, No dreams, or glad or sad may vex their sleep, No slighted duty shame upon them cries. No wratn of Gods shall make the shut eyes weep, - The dead sln in no wise. But Death is 6tern, and sparing of hts power, Not easily he yleldeth to our cries, But stands aloof. knowing that in some wise We shall out-last the agonizing hour And conquer strong despair. Beath's gift is great, It must be work by wage of weary years To sorrow's heavy service consécrate, Years counted day by day, with chilling tears And yearniugs passionate. And some there be to whom he comes too slowly, And in the mad impatience óf despair They wait not till he granteth them their share In his biest gift,- but nee by ways unholy To the dim land. O hapless fugitives ! How shall we voice your blame ! Ratber we pray, That as ye hoped, no memory in yeu lives, That ye mourn not the lives ye did betray, But Death your wrong forgives. Stronger than Death Is Love, O God unheeded In the dark hour, how have we wrought thee wrong Singing thee only in the lighter song ! We pray to Sleep and death- what soul hsth pleaded With Love, that Love would grantforgetfulness, And soothe away tbe hurt of humbled pride, And still the longing for dead happiness, And bringing peace in place of j oy denied, Sweeten grief 's bitterness ! Who hath prayed this wise ? Yea, who hath diseoveied Any help in him for the pains we bear ? We'saw nis outward fashion passing fair, Perchance, when o"er our hearts his light wings hovered ; We knew the subtle sweetness of his breath, We knew his feet with swift desire shod, We knew his eyes, thal speak what no voice saith- We knew him an exceeding bitter god, More merciless than Death. Through the dim ages sounds a mighty crying Accusing Love, that, that made more tears to flow Than any God ; that lays on us below Infinite pain and agony undying. " Love," wail the voices, "made our brightness fade,- Look his eyes, and see all sorrow there. Love slew us pitilessly. man and maid, Pray not to him ! He hearsnot any prayer, He grants no aid !" But let Love speak. Lo, how hls grave tremble,- Is it for pity, or ín angry scorn ? Hearkeu his words, in earnest sweetness borne Unto the throngs that round his feet assemble. " I wot well ye cali Love a bitter thing ; I wot ye fly from me and pray me not; I wot ye say my honey hides a sting: Th-it but for me all sorrow were forgot ; Pain past remembering. " Ye do not well, these lying words believing, Ye do not well, in crying out my blame; Ye never knew Love! What bath borne my name And ye called Love, - what worked to your deceiving And left you only aneuish and despair When broken was the first brief, sweet surprise- These were Love's foes- Desire, Pride, Sel!ward care, A mockery of Love in Love's own guise, - Love had therein no share! " Yea. I deny not that with heavy sorrow And tearless pain and speechless agouy I try the hearts that I would turn to me. Yet - my Beloved - would ye shrink, and borrow Contentment from a life that knew me not? Would ye take any gladness for my grief? Pray ye that of your souls I be forgot Or that your burdened hearts may kuow relief Of the pain 1 begot? Not so. Who knoweth Love in his true fashion, Through false disguises that about bim ding. These know Heaven 's selfdotn hold no better thing Than Love, the gentle God, whose deep comp&ssion Ye dream not of. Lo ! to your yearning breath Shall I not answer, when ye importune? Am I not even as kind as Sleep and Death? Live, Sleep and Death go to the same sweet tune, One subtle singer saith. " O all ye sorrow-laden that are craying Some little respite from the pains ye bear, I cali you - Love - I offer you rich share Of the forgetfulness where lies your saving ! I have no scarlet flame of poppy flowers, There is no dew of Letbe in my cup, Ye shall not dream away the languid hours, Nor unto Death shall ye deliver up Your souls' God-given powers ! ' Drink of my cup ! I promise you- not gladness,- "j Nay, ye may well walk close to sorrow's side All your Uves through, and have no other guide, And ye shall know full me&sure of all sadnsss. But drink my cup - and all your pain is biest ! Drink ! and tbe solemn joy of Gods divine Shall stlll the clamorlng self within your breast, And make therein a silent, hallowed shrine Where ye shall find your rest. " Come ! ye shall share in all men's tears and laughter, Yet be not snaken in your deep content, " Come ! ye shall learn what that high sentence meant Stronger than Death is Love ! Yea, and hereafter, When Sleep and Death have lost thelr spell, and cease, Ye shall know mine inimitable deathless reign, And share with me in mine own holy peace, Forgetfulness of self- And from your pain So shall ye have release." O, ye who linger in youth's aunny places With half-reluctant hand on the great gate That bears above it written one word- Fate ; Beyond which lies the road that none retraces, - It is not much that any one fan say So sure and swift these parting moments fly, Only to bid you Godspeed on your way, Only to give you greeting and good-bye,- And then- to turn away. Yet, were all golden words to me imparted, And all high thoughts that musically flow, A better thing than this I could not know To wish and pray for you ere ye departed: When to you comes your hour of bitterness, And Sleep beguiles you with her deadly wine, And Death seems grateful to your harp distress,- Pray you, - choose well ! and choose the cup divine Of Love's Forgetfulness.