Torn, and thy honored bloom with dust defiled;
Yet, holy earth, accept my suppliant prayer,
And in a mother’s arms enfold thy child.
FROM THE ALCESTIS OF EURIPIDES.
We will not look on her burial sod
As the cell of sepulchral sleep:
It shall be as the shrine of a radiant god,
And the pilgrim shall visit this blest abode
To worship, and not to weep.
And as he turns his steps aside,