“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: