A Spring Harvest/The Burial of Sophocles
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 townAnd 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: 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 singThe new-returnèd nightingales;Whenas all hills and woods and dalesAre resonant with melodyOf songs that die not, but shall beUnto the latest hour of timeBeyond the life of word or rime—Whenas all brooks more softly flowRemembering lovers long agoThat stood upon their banks and vowed, And love was with them like a cloud: There came one out of Athens townIn a spun robe, with sandals brown,Just when the white ship of the moonHad first set sail, and many a runeWas written in the argent stars;His feet were set towards the hillsBecause he knew that there the rillsRan down like jewels, and fairy cars 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 skyFall down, and men be crushed and die. And so he reached a curvèd hill Whereon the horned 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 sitIn a most high and passionless conclave:They ate ambrosia with their deathless lips,And ever and anon the golden waveFlowed of the drink divine, which only strips This mortal frame of its mortality. And there, and there was Aphrodite, she That is more lovely than the golden dawnAnd 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 throngAnd 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, 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 tearsThan o'er the falling of the years:
Aye, happy seven times is he Who enters not the silent doorsBefore his time, but tenderly Death beckons unto him, becauseThere's rest within for weary feetNow all the journey is complete.