As the war-trumpet drowns the rustic flute,
So when your lyre is heard all strings are mute:
Not vain the labor of those clustering bees
Who on your infant lips spread honey-dew;
Witness great Pan who hymned your melodies,
Pindar, forgetful of his pipes for you.
Earth in her breast hides Plato's dust: his soul
The gods forever 'mid their ranks enroll.
And—
Eagle! why soarest thou above the tomb?
To what sublime and starry-paven home
Floatest thou?
I am the image of swift Plato's spirit,
Ascending heaven: Athens does inherit
His corpse below.
Shelley.
Straight is the way to Acheron,
Whether the spirit's race is run
From Athens or from Meroë:
Weep not, far off from home to die;
The wind doth blow in every sky,
That wafts us to that doleful sea.