Wind, gentle evergreen, to form a shade
Around the tomb where Sophocles is laid:
Sweet ivy, wind thy boughs, and intertwine
With blushing roses and the clustering vine;
Thus will thy lasting leaves, with beauties hung,
Prove grateful emblems of the lays he sung,
Whose soul, exalted like a god of wit,
Among the Muses and the Graces writ.
Beautifully done—yet somewhat marred by the incongruous idea of a soul writing. For my own attempt, I claim no merit, save something of fidelity.
Gently, oh! ivy, gently curl thy tresses,