The Isles of the Blessed
Pindar, Fr., 106, 107 (95): B. 4, 129–130, 109 (97): B. 4, 132.
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!
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