Charge to the Players

Shades, that our town-fellows have come
To hear rewake for Christendom
This cleansing of a Pagan wrong
In flowing tides of tragic song,--
You shadows that the living call
To walk again the Trojan wall,--
You lips and countenance renewed
Of an immortal fortitude,--
Know that, among the silent rows
Of these our daily town-fellows,
Watching the shades with these who bring
But mortal ears to this you sing,
There somewhere sits the Greek who made
This gift of song, himself a shade.