Song Of The Manes

Come, dance we now in friendly band;
  The Manes twinkling Hesperus calls;
  Cynthia through heaven a trembling light
  Shoots from her silver horns.
  None, blushing for his own poor grave,
  Craves—here—another's lordlier tomb;
  All equalized, at last, by Death,
  Who mocks our human pride.
  Yet we too have our stars, though not
  Lovely as earth's; our zephyrs we,
  If scarce like spring's; some lighter airs,
  And many a cypress grove.
 
  Manes, belov'd! whose debt is paid,
  Yet, as we dance, still scatter flowers,
  Though of dim hue; and lilies shed,
  If dusky—grateful still.
  How apt our feet! This springy turf
  No plod of heavy business knows;
  As deftly, weightless, bodiless,
  We wingèd shadows play!
  Thrice sinks our song to silence down;
  Thrice turn we to the Elysian pole;
  And thrice athwart the waste of night
  Bid our wan torches gleam.
  Thou who shalt see, forbear to blame!
  Songs shalt thou chaunt, ere long, like ours;
  Like thee—were we; like us—be thou;
  So follow—and farewell!