The Burial of Sophocles
Ah! surely there is wonder and strange stir
Amid Earth's guardian gods, when the last goal
Hath gain'd the crown, and to Earth's sepulchre
We bear the way-worn chariot of the soul!—
And surely here a memory shall last,
In hill and grove and torrent, of this day,
For bards to glean who can: and they shall sing
How the sweet singer pass'd
Forth to his rest with war about his way
And a dread mask of Ares menacing!
Alas! poor city, fate-enshadowèd,
How powerless all thy pride of piety
To give due service to thy poet dead—
Save by the favour of an enemy!—
A bitter hard-won favour; for folks say
Lord Dionysus twice in vision came,
Jealous and wroth, to school Lysander's might,
That, where his fathers lay,
The darling prophet of the god's own flame,
Cradled in calm, should sleep his endless night.
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