The Isles of the Blessed

Pindar, Fr., 106, 107 (95): B. 4, 129–130, 109 (97): B. 4, 132.

NOW the light of the sun, in the night of the Earth, on the souls of
the True
Shines, and their city is girt with the meadow where reigneth the
rose;
And deep is the shade of the woods, and the wind that flits o’er them
and through
Sings of the sea, and is sweet from the isles where the
frankincense blows:
Green is their garden and orchard, with rare fruits golden it glows,
And the souls of the Blessed are glad in the pleasures on Earth
that they knew,
And in chariots these have delight, and in dice and in minstrelsy
those,
And the savour of sacrifice clings to the altars and rises anew.

But the Souls that Persephone cleanses from ancient pollution and
stain,
These at the end of the age be they prince, be they singer, or
seer;
These to the world, shall be born as of old, shall be sages again;
These of their hands shall be hardy, shall live, and shall die, and
shall hear
Thanks of the people, and songs of the minstrels that praise them
amain,
And their glory shall dwell in the land where they dwelt, while
year calls unto year!