The year runs through her phases; rain and sun, Springtime and summer pass; winter succeeds;
But one pale season rules the house of death.
Cold falls the imprisoned daylight; fell disease By each lean pallet squats, and pain and sleep Toss gaping on the pillows.
But O thou!
Uprise and take thy pipe. Bid music flow, Strains by good thoughts attended, like the spring The swallows follow over land and sea.
Pain sleeps at once; at once, with open eyes, Dozing despair awakes. The shepherd sees His flock come bleating home; the seaman hears Once more the cordage rattle. Airs of home!
Youth, love and roses blossom; the gaunt ward Dislimns and disappears, and, opening out, Shows brooks and forests, and the blue beyond Of mountains.
Small the pipe; but oh! do thou, Peak-faced and suffering piper, blow therein The dirge of heroes dead; and to these sick, These dying, sound the triumph over death.
Behold! each greatly breathes; each tastes a joy Unknown before, in dying; for each knows A hero dies with him - though unfulfilled, Yet conquering truly - and not dies in vain So is pain cheered, death comforted; the house Of sorrow smiles to listen. Once again -
O thou, Orpheus and Heracles, the bard And the deliverer, touch the stops again!
