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! DEATH. (_Æsch._, _Fr._, 156.) OF all Gods Death alone Disdaineth sacrifice: No man hath found or shown The gift that Death would prize. In vain are songs or sighs, Pæan, or praise, or moan, Alone beneath the skies Hath Death no altar-stone! There is no head so dear That men would grudge to Death; Let Death but ask, we give All gifts that we may live; But though Death dwells so near, We know not what he saith. NYSA. (_Soph._, _Fr._, 235; _Æsch._, _Fr._, 56.) ON these Nysæan shores divine The clusters ripen in a day. At dawn the blossom shreds away; The berried grapes are green and fine And full by noon; in day’s decline They’re purple with a bloom of grey, And e’er the twilight plucked are they, And crushed, by nightfall, into wine. But through the night with torch in hand Down the dusk hills the Mænads fare; The bull-voiced mummers roar and blare, The muffled timbrels swell and sound, And drown the clamour of the band Like thunder moaning underground. COLONUS. (_Œd. Col._, 667–705.) I. HERE be the fairest homes the land can show, The silvery-cliffed Colonus; always here The nightingale doth haunt and singeth clear, For well the deep green gardens doth she know. Groves of the God, where winds may never blow, Nor men may tread, nor noontide sun may peer Among the myriad-berried ivy dear, Where Dionysus wanders to and fro.