The Burial of Sophocles
'Twas thus, that, ere the arrows of the dawn
First shot the peaks of clear Pentelicus
With the day's golden promise, we had drawn
Nigh to the house of death and girded us
With the dim livery of the funeral:
A small, sad band, whom love or blood allow'd
To tend the dead; while vexing the repose
Of stars, who listening all
Peered through a shifting curtain of frail cloud,
Like a wild song the women's wailing rose.
Slowly we brought him forth—can I forget?—
And soft adown the lantern-hemmèd street
Parted the throngs who paid their pious debt
Of patient watching and of reverence meet.
And there were sudden tears and murmurs faint
And floating cries upon the midnight air,—
Not that they grudg'd him death, nor would importune
The gods in idle plaint:
But oh! he went (their burthen of despair)—
Athens' last light—in Athens' darkest fortune!
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