Ye caverns, and ye founts
That from these rocky mounts
Well forth, and fall below
With glassy flow;
Ye forests, and ye waves
Whose stream these meadows laves;
Ye banks and copses gay,
Hear ye my lay.
When Heaven and my last sun
Shall tell my race is run,
Snatched from the dwelling bright
Of common light;
No marble chiselled be,
That boastfulness may see
A grander pomp illume
My lowly tomb.
But may, in marble’s stead,
Some tree with shading head
Uplift its leafy screen,
For ever green.
And from me, grant, O Earth!
An ivy plant its birth,
In close embraces bound
My body round:
And may enwreathing vine
To deck my tomb entwine,
That all around be made
A trellised shade.
Thither shall swains, each year,
On my feast-day draw near,
With lowing herds in view,—
A rustic crew;
Who, hailing first the light
With Eucharistic rite,
Addressing thus the Isle,[5]
Shall sing, the while:—
“_How splendid is thy fame,
O tomb, to own the name
Of one, who fills with verse
The Universe!_
_“Who never burned with fire
Of envious desire
For glorious Fate affords
To mighty lords;_
“_Nor ever taught the use
Of love-compelling juice;
Nor ancient magic art
Did e’er impart;_
“_But gave our meads to see
The Sister Graces three
Dance o’er the swarded plains
To his sweet strains._
“_Because he made his lyre
Such soft accords respire,
As filled us and our place
With his own grace._
“_May gentle manna fall,
For ever, on his pall;
And dews, exhaled in May,
At close of day._
“_Be turf, and murmuring wave,
The fence around his grave:
Wave, ever flowing seen—
Turf, ever green._
“_And we, whose hearts so well
His noble fame can tell,
As unto Pan, will bear
Honors, each year._”
So will that choir strike up;
Pouring from many a cup
A lamb’s devoted blood,
With milky flood,
O’er me, who then shall be
Of that High City free,
Where happy souls possess
Their blissfulness.
Hail hurtles not, nor there
Fall snow, in that mild air;
Nor thunder-stroke o’erwhelms
Those hallowed realms:
But evermore is seen
To reign, unfading green;
And, ever blossoming,
The lovely Spring.
Nor there do they endure
The lusts that kings allure
Their ruined neighbors’ State
To dominate:
Like brothers they abide;
And, though on earth they died,
Pursue the tasks they set
While living yet.
There, there, Alcæus’ lyre
I’ll hear, of wrathful fire;
And Sappho’s chords, which fall
Sweeter than all.
How those blest souls, whose ear
Shall strains so chanted hear,
In gladness must abound
At that sweet sound;
When Sisyphus the shock
Forgetteth, of his rock;
And Tantalus by thirst
Is no more curst!
The sole delicious Lyre
Fulfils the heart’s desire;
And charms, with joy intense,
The listening sense.
—_Blackwood’s Magazine._