Within these pleasant streets and wide, The souls of Heroes go and come, Even they that fell on either side Beneath the walls of Ilium; And sunlike in that shadowy isle The face of Helen and her smile Makes glad the souls of them that knew Grief for her sake a little while! And all true Greeks and wise are there; And with his hand upon the hair Of Phaedo, saw I Socrates, About him many youths and fair, Hylas, Narcissus, and with these Him whom the quoit of Phoebus slew By fleet Eurotas, unaware!
All these their mirth and pleasure made Within the plain Elysian, The fairest meadow that may be, With all green fragrant trees for shade And every scented wind to fan, And sweetest flowers to strew the lea; The soft Winds are their servants fleet To fetch them every fruit at will And water from the river chill; And every bird that singeth sweet Throstle, and merle, and nightingale Brings blossoms from the dewy vale,— Lily, and rose, and asphodel— With these doth each guest twine his crown And wreathe his cup, and lay him down Beside some friend he loveth well.
There with the shining Souls I lay When, lo, a Voice that seemed to say, In far-off haunts of Memory, _Whoso doth taste the Dead Men’s bread_, _Shall dwell for ever with these Dead_, _Nor ever shall his body lie_ _Beside his friends_, _on the grey hill_ _Where rains weep_, _and the curlews shrill_ _And the brown water wanders by_!
Then did a new soul in me wake, The dead men’s bread I feared to break, Their fruit I would not taste indeed Were it but a pomegranate seed. Nay, not with these I made my choice To dwell for ever and rejoice, For otherwhere the River rolls That girds the home of Christian souls, And these my whole heart seeks are found On otherwise enchanted ground.
Even so I put the cup away, The vision wavered, dimmed, and broke, And, nowise sorrowing, I woke While, grey among the ruins grey Chill through the dwellings of the dead, The Dawn crept o’er the Northern sea, Then, in a moment, flushed to red, Flushed all the broken minster old, And turned the shattered stones to gold, And wakened half the world with me!
(Who also had rhymed on the _Fortunate Islands_ of Lucian).
_Each in the self-same field we glean_ _The field of the Samosatene_, _Each something takes and something leaves_ _And this must choose_, _and that forego_ _In Lucian’s visionary sheaves_, _To twine a modern posy so_; _But all my gleanings_, _truth to tell_, _Are mixed with mournful asphodel_, _While yours are wreathed with poppies red_, _With flowers that Helen’s feet have kissed_, _With leaves of vine that garlanded_ _The Syrian Pantagruelist_, _The sage who laughed the world away_, _Who mocked at Gods_, _and men_, _and care_, _More sweet of voice than Rabelais_, _And lighter-hearted than Voltaire_.