Ballad
I
What do we here who, with reverted eyes,
Turn back our longing from the modern air
To the dim gold of long-evanished skies,
When other songs in other mouths were fair?
Why do we stay the load of life to bear,
To measure still the weary, worldly ways,
Waiting upon the still-recurring sun,
That ushers in another waste of days,
Of roseless Junes and unenchanted Mays?
Why, but because our task is yet undone?
II
Were it not thus, could but our high emprise
Be once fulfilled, which of us would forbear
To seek that haven where contentment lies?
Who would not doff at once life’s load of care,
To be at peace amid the silence there?
Ah, who alas?—Across the heat and haze
Death beckons to us in the shadow dun—
Favouring and fair—“My rest is sweet,” he says;
But we reluctantly avert our gaze:
Why, but because our task is yet undone?
III
Songs have we sung, and many melodies
Have from our lips had issue rich and rare;
But never yet the conquering chant did rise,
That should ascend the very heaven’s stair,
To rescue life from anguish and despair.
Often and again, drunk with delight of lays,
“Lo!” have we cried, “this is the golden one
That shall deliver us!”—Alas! Hope’s rays
Die in the distance, and Life’s sadness stays.
Why, but because our task is yet undone?
Envoy.
Great God of Love, thou whom all poets praise,
Grant that the aim of rest for us be won;
Let the light shine upon our life that strays
Disconsolate within the desert maze;
Why, but because our task is yet undone?
John Payne.