Arthur Quiller-Couch, comp. The Oxford Book of Victorian Verse. 1922.
Mors, Morituri Te SalutamusFrancis Burdett Money-Coutts (18521923)
I
Not that I fear thee,—more than mortal sprite
Fears the dark entrance, whence no man returns;
For who would not resign his scanty breath,
Unreal joy, and troublesome delight,
To marble coffer or sepulchral urn’s
Inviolate keeping?
To quench the smouldering lamp, that feebly burns
Within this chamber, to procure sweet sleeping,
Is not a madman’s act. And yet I hate thee,
Swift breaker of life’s poor illusion,
Stern ender of love’s fond confusion,
And with rebellion in my heart await thee.
With orders seal’d and only to be read
When home has faded in the morning mist
And simple faith and innocence are fled!
By phantoms and weird wonders
That haunt the deep,
By voices, winds, and thunders,
Old mariners that cannot pray nor weep,
And faces of drown’d souls that cannot sleep!
Or else our crew is mutinous, array’d
Against us, and the mandate is delay’d.
Are satisfied or quell’d;
When sails are trimm’d to catch the merry wind,
And billows dance before and foam behind;
Free, free at last from tumult and distraction
Of pleasure beckon’d and of pain repell’d,—
Free from ourselves and disciplined for action,—
We break the seal of destiny, to find
The bourne or venture for our cruise design’d,
Then, at that very moment, hark! a cry
On deck; and then a silence, as of breath
Held. In the offing, low against the sky,
Hoves thy black flag!… Therefore I hate thee, Death!