Classic Poem

(After Ronsard)

YE caverns, and ye rills
That from the beetling hills
Down every rocky wall
Glide, gleam, and fall;
Ye woods and streams around,
Where poplar'd isles abound,
And glistening myrtles throng,—
List to my song.

When Fate and heavenly power
Forecast my dying hour,
Enchanted with the ray
Of common day,
I wish not that Pretence
Of Grandeur or Expense
Shall build some marble gloom
About my tomb.

But let a green tree wave
His arms above my grave,
And be my body laid
Within that shade:
Thus from my corpse below
Ivy shall climb and grow,
To canopy that ground
In many a round.

The coiling grapevine there
Shall wreath my sepulchre,
And all its leaves become
A fragrant gloom.
And yearly to these rocks
Shall shepherds bring their flocks,
And by my dripping wall
Hold festival.

First, having paid the price
Of some quaint sacrifice,
They to the isles and trees
Speak words like these:—
'Ah happy tomb, whose fate
'Tis to commemorate
The name of one, whose worth
Fills all the earth.
Who in his life was such
As envy might not touch;
Who fawned not on the great,
For all their state,

'Nor dabbled in the lore
By Wisdom shunned of yore,
Nor in the divinations
Of Pagan nations.
But with his songs divine
He lured the Sacred Nine,
Till all might hear and see
Their minstrelsy.

'He drew so sweet a note
From the lyre that he smote,
That our whole countryside
Was sanctified.
And manna from the skies
Falls ever where he lies;
And summer nights diffuse
Celestial dews.

'The murmuring river clear
Circles his grassy bier,
Weaving,—like walls around,—
Verdure and sound.
And we who know his fame,
His glory here proclaim;
His honor here prolong
With gift and song.'

And now the little band
Turn, and with pious hand
Pour out libations nine
Of milk and wine,
O'er me, who at that hour
Lie in Elysium's bower,
Where every spirit blest
Doth take his rest.

Nor hail, nor snow, nor rain
Disturb that bright domain,
Nor bolt, that from on high
Bursts from the sky.
But the immortal sheen
Of leaves is ever seen;
And deathless blossoming
Of happy spring.

Ambition, strife, and care
Are banished from that air,
And wars, by kings designed,
To rule mankind.
There all like brothers true
Their ancient deeds renew,
Living in love and faith,
Even after death.

There, there, my soul shall know
The pang of Sappho's woe!
There clangs, with dreaded fire,
Alcæus' lyre;
And harmonies resound
From every island mound
Where sages pause to drink
Song at its brink.

Yea distant echoes wake
Across the Infernal Lake,
And e'en the damned receive
Some sweet reprieve.
Beneath that heavy charm
Ixion takes no harm,
And Tantalus is freed
From thirst and greed.
The poet's voice hath sent
To every mind content,
And poured across his lyre
To every human heart the heart's desire.