The Burial of Sophocles
And so we laid him: even so he lies
To be for aye the Muse's pensioner:
Poets unborn shall sing him, centuries
Untold tell of his fealty to her.—
For oh! the service of his life will live
Deathlessly eloquent. But I alas!
Left desolate within this teasing world—
What comfort can I give
My comrades ere again those walls we pass
Whose flag of hope for evermore is furl'd?
O multitudinous music of the day—
Bird-song and breeze and forest-minstrelsy—
You storm this heart and to your chorus gay
Marry its dirge of desolate misery:
Whence a faint song of musing hope is born,—
Hope for Earth's children whom the Master lov'd,
And for God's justice that he witness'd e'er,
Hope for his Athens torn
By foe and feud: So be my spirit prov'd
Not all unworthy him whose name I bear.
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