John Jay Chapman

The Poet Orders His Sepulchre

(After Ronsard) YE caverns, and ye rills That from the beetling hills Down every rocky wall Glide, gleam, and fall; Ye woods and streams around, Where poplar'd isles abound, And glistening myrtles throng,— List to my song. When Fate and heavenly power Forecast my dying hour, Enchanted with the ray Of common day, I wish not that Pretence Of Grandeur or Expense Shall build some marble gloom About my tomb. But let a green tree wave His arms above my grave, And be my body laid Within that shade: Thus from my corpse below Ivy shall climb and grow, To canopy that ground In many a round. The coiling grapevine there Shall wreath my sepulchre, And all its leaves become A fragrant gloom. And yearly to these rocks Shall shepherds bring their flocks, And by my dripping wall Hold festival. First, having paid the price Of some quaint sacrifice, They to the isles and trees Speak words like these:— "Ah happy tomb, whose fate 'Tis to commemorate The name of one, whose worth Fills all the earth. Who in his life was such As envy might not touch; Who fawned not on the great, For all their state, "Nor dabbled in the lore By Wisdom shunned of yore, Nor in the divinations Of Pagan nations. But with his songs divine He lured the Sacred Nine, Till all might hear and see Their minstrelsy. "He drew so sweet a note From the lyre that he smote, That our whole countryside Was sanctified. And manna from the skies Falls ever where he lies; And summer nights diffuse Celestial dews. "The murmuring river clear Circles his grassy bier, Weaving,—like walls around,— Verdure and sound. And we who know his fame, His glory here proclaim; His honor here prolong With gift and song. " And now the little band Turn, and with pious hand Pour out libations nine Of milk and wine, O'er me, who at that hour Lie in Elysium's bower, Where every spirit blest Doth take his rest. Nor hail, nor snow, nor rain Disturb that bright domain, Nor bolt, that from on high Bursts from the sky. But the immortal sheen Of leaves is ever seen; And deathless blossoming Of happy spring. Ambition, strife, and care Are banished from that air, And wars, by kings designed, To rule mankind. There all like brothers true Their ancient deeds renew, Living in love and faith, Even after death. There, there, my soul shall know The pang of Sappho's woe! There clangs, with dreaded fire, Alcæus' lyre; And harmonies resound From every island mound Where sages pause to drink Song at its brink. Yea distant echoes wake Across the Infernal Lake, And e'en the damned receive Some sweet reprieve. Beneath that heavy charm Ixion takes no harm, And Tantalus is freed From thirst and greed. The poet's voice hath sent To every mind content, And poured across his lyre To every human heart the heart's desire.