The Burial of Sophocles
The First Verses
Gather great store of roses, crimson-red
From ancient gardens under summer skies:
New opened buds, and some that soon must shed
Their leaves to earth, that all expectant lies;
Some from the paths of poets’ wandering,
Some from the places where young lovers meet,
Some from the seats of dreamers pondering,
And all most richly red, and honey-sweet.
For in the splendour of the afternoon,
When sunshine lingers on the glittering town
And glorifies the temples wondrous-hewn
All set about it like a deathless crown,
We will go mingle with the solemn throng,
With neither eyes that weep, nor hearts that bleed,
That to his grave with slow, majestic song
Bears down the latest of the godlike seed.
Many a singer lies on distant isle
Beneath the canopy of changing sky:
Around them waves innumerable smile,
And o’er their head the restless seabirds cry:
But we will lay him far from sound of seas,
Far from the jutting crags’ unhopeful gloom,
Where there blows never wind save summer breeze,
And where the growing rose may clasp his tomb.
And thither in the splendid nights of spring,
When stars in legions over heaven are flung,
Shall come the ancient gods, all wondering
Why he sings not that had so richly sung:
[pg 74] There Heracles with peaceful foot shall press
The springing herbage, and Hephæstus strong,
Hera and Aphrodite’s loveliness,
And the great giver of the choric song.
And thither, after weary pilgrimage,
From unknown lands beyond the hoary wave,
Shall travellers through every coming age
Approach to pluck a blossom from his grave:
Some in the flush of youth, or in the prime,
Whose life is still as heapèd gold to spend,
And some who have drunk deep of grief and time,
And who yet linger half-afraid the end.
The Interlude
It was upon a night of spring,
Even the time when first do sing
The new-returnèd nightingales;
Whenas all hills and woods and dales
Are resonant with melody
Of songs that die not, but shall be
Unto the latest hour of time
Beyond the life of word or rime—
Whenas all brooks more softly flow
Remembering lovers long ago
That stood upon their banks and vowed,
And love was with them like a cloud:
There came one out of Athens town
In a spun robe, with sandals brown,
Just when the white ship of the moon
Had first set sail, and many a rune
Was written in the argent stars;
His feet were set towards the hills
Because he knew that there the rills
Ran down like jewels, and fairy cars
[pg 75] Galloped, maybe, among the dells,
And airy sprites wove fitful spells
Of gossamer and cold moonshine
Which do most mistily entwine:
And ever the hills called, and a voice
Cried: “Soon, maybe, comes thy choice
Twixt mortal immortality
Such as shall never be again,
’Twixt the most passionate-pleasant pain
And all the quiet, barren joys
That old men prate about to boys.”
————
He wandered many nights and days—
Whose morns were always crystal clear,
As lay the world in still amaze
Enchanted of the springing year,
And all the nights with wakeful eyes
Watched for another dawn to rise—
Till at the last the mountain tops
Received him, which like giant props
Stand, lest the all-encircling sky
Fall down, and men be crushed and die.
And so he reached a curvèd hill
Whereon the hornèd moon did seem
Her richest radiance to spill
In an inestimable stream,
Like jewels rare of countless price,
Or wizard magic turned to ice.
————
And as he reached the topmost crest of it,
Lo! the Olympian majesties did sit
In a most high and passionless conclave:
They ate ambrosia with their deathless lips,
And ever and anon the golden wave
Flowed of the drink divine, which only strips
This mortal frame of its mortality.
And there, and there was Aphrodite, she
[pg 76] That is more lovely than the golden dawn
And from a ripple of the sea was born:
And there was Hera, the imperious queen,
And Dian’s chastity, that hunts unseen
What time with spring the woodland boughs are green:
And there was Pan with mirth and pleasantness,
And Eros’ self that never knew distress
Save for the love of the fair Cretan maid;
There Hermes with the wings of speed arrayed,
And awful Zeus, the king of gods and men,
And ever at his feet Apollo sang
A measure of changing harmonies that rang
From that high mountain over all the world,
And all the sails of fighting ships were furled,
And men drew breath, and there was peace again.
But him that saw, the sight like flame
Or depths of waters overcame:
He swooned, nor heard how ceased the choir
Of strings upon Apollo’s lyre,
Nor saw he how the sweet god stood
And smiled on him in kindly mood,
And stooped, and kissed him as he lay;
Then lightly rose and turned away
To join the bright immortal throng
And make for them another song.
The Last Verses
O ageless nonpareil of stars
That shinest through a mist of cloud,
O light beyond the prison bars
Remote, unwavering, and proud;
Fortunate star and happy light,
Ye benison the gloom of night.
All hail, unfailing eye and hand,
All hail, all hail, unsilenced voice,
[pg 77] That makest dead men understand,
The very dead in graves rejoice:
Whose utterance, writ in ancient books,
Shall always live, for him that looks.
Many as leaves from autumn trees
The years shall flutter from on high,
And with their multiple decease
The souls of men shall fall and die,
Yet, while the empires turn to dust,
You shall live on, because you must.
O seven times happy he that dies
After the splendid harvest-tide,
When strong barns shield from winter skies
The grain that’s rightly stored inside:
There death shall scatter no more tears
Than o’er the falling of the years:
Aye, happy seven times is he
Who enters not the silent doors
Before his time, but tenderly
Death beckons unto him, because
There’s rest within for weary feet
Now all the journey is complete.
[pg 78]