When Heaven and my last sun Shall tell my race is run, Snatched from the dwelling bright Of common light; No marble chiselled be, That boastfulness may see A grander pomp illume My lowly tomb. But may, in marble’s stead, Some tree with shading head Uplift its leafy screen, For ever green. And from me, grant, O Earth! An ivy plant its birth, In close embraces bound My body round: And may enwreathing vine To deck my tomb entwine, That all around be made A trellised shade. Thither shall swains, each year, On my feast-day draw near, With lowing herds in view,— A rustic crew; Who, hailing first the light With Eucharistic rite, Addressing thus the Isle,[5] Shall sing, the while:— “_How splendid is thy fame, O tomb, to own the name Of one, who fills with verse The Universe!_ _“Who never burned with fire Of envious desire For glorious Fate affords To mighty lords;_ “_Nor ever taught the use Of love-compelling juice; Nor ancient magic art Did e’er impart;_ “_But gave our meads to see The Sister Graces three Dance o’er the swarded plains To his sweet strains._ “_Because he made his lyre Such soft accords respire, As filled us and our place With his own grace._ “_May gentle manna fall, For ever, on his pall; And dews, exhaled in May, At close of day._ “_Be turf, and murmuring wave, The fence around his grave: Wave, ever flowing seen— Turf, ever green._ “_And we, whose hearts so well His noble fame can tell, As unto Pan, will bear Honors, each year._” So will that choir strike up; Pouring from many a cup A lamb’s devoted blood, With milky flood, O’er me, who then shall be Of that High City free, Where happy souls possess Their blissfulness. Hail hurtles not, nor there Fall snow, in that mild air; Nor thunder-stroke o’erwhelms Those hallowed realms: But evermore is seen To reign, unfading green; And, ever blossoming, The lovely Spring. Nor there do they endure The lusts that kings allure Their ruined neighbors’ State To dominate: Like brothers they abide; And, though on earth they died, Pursue the tasks they set While living yet. There, there, Alcæus’ lyre I’ll hear, of wrathful fire; And Sappho’s chords, which fall Sweeter than all. How those blest souls, whose ear Shall strains so chanted hear, In gladness must abound At that sweet sound;