II.

How strangely still! no sound of life or joy Startles the air; no laughing shepherd-boy Pipes on his reed, nor ever through the day Comes the glad sound of children at their play: O sad, and sweet, and silent! surely here A man might dwell apart from troublous fear, Watching the tide of seasons as they flow From amorous Spring to Winter’s rain and snow, And have no thought of sorrow;—here, indeed, Are Lethe’s waters, and that fatal weed Which makes a man forget his fatherland.

Ay! amid lotus-meadows dost thou stand, Like Proserpine, with poppy-laden head, Guarding the holy ashes of the dead. For though thy brood of warrior sons hath ceased, Thy noble dead are with thee!—they at least Are faithful to thine honour:—guard them well, O childless city! for a mighty spell, To wake men’s hearts to dreams of things sublime, Are the lone tombs where rest the Great of Time.