Page:The poems of Robert W. Sterling, 1916.djvu/33

The Burial of Sophocles And so we laid him: even so he lies

To be for aye the Muse's pensioner:

Poets unborn shall sing him, centuries

Untold tell of his fealty to her.—

For oh! the service of his life will live

Deathlessly eloquent. But I alas!

Left desolate within this teasing world—

What comfort can I give

My comrades ere again those walls we pass

Whose flag of hope for evermore is furl'd?

O multitudinous music of the day—

Bird-song and breeze and forest-minstrelsy—

You storm this heart and to your chorus gay

Marry its dirge of desolate misery:

Whence a faint song of musing hope is born,—

Hope for Earth's children whom the Master lov'd,

And for God's justice that he witness'd e'er,

Hope for his Athens torn

By foe and feud: So be my spirit prov'd

Not all unworthy him whose name I bear.

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