The Funeral

When ancient warriors Hades made its own,
Their sacred image Greece was wont to bear
To Phocis' lustrous fanes as Pytho there,
Rock-bound and lightning-girdled, ruled alone.

Whereat their Shades, when night in glory shone
On desert gulfs and isles all brightly fair,
Heard, from the headlands' height in radiant air,
Famed Salamis above their tombs intone.

But I, when old, in lengthening grief shall die,
And then nailed down in narrow coffin lie,
The earth's and tapers' cost, with priest's fee, paid;

And yet, in many a dream my soul aspires
To sink into the sun, even as the sires,
Still young and wept by hero and by maid.