But Time, who slays so many a memory, Brought hers to light, the short-lived loving Queen; And her fair soul, as scent of flowers unseen, Sweetened the turmoil of long centuries. For soon, indeed, Death laid his hand on these, The shouters round the throne upon that day. And for Admetus, he, too, went his way, Though if he died at all I cannot tell; But either on the earth he ceased to dwell, Or else, oft born again, had many a name. But through all lands of Greece Alcestis' fame Grew greater, and about her husband's twined Lived, in the hearts of far-off men enshrined. See I have told her tale, though I know not What men are dwelling now on that green spot Anigh Boebeis, or if Pheræ still, With name oft changed perchance, adown the hill Still shows its white walls to the rising sun. --The gods at least remember what is done.
Strange felt the wanderers at his tale, for now Their old desires it seemed once more to show Unto their altered hearts, when now the rest, Most surely coming, of all things seemed best;-- --Unless, by death perchance they yet might gain Some space to try such deeds as now in vain They heard of amidst stories of the past; Such deeds as they for that wild hope had cast From out their hands--they sighed to think of it, And how as deedless men they there must sit.
Yet, with the measured falling of that rhyme Mingled the lovely sights and glorious time, Whereby, in spite of hope long past away, In spite of knowledge growing day by day Of lives so wasted, in despite of death, With sweet content that eve they drew their breath, And scarce their own lives seemed to touch them more Than that dead Queen's beside Boebéis' shore; Bitter and sweet so mingled in them both, Their lives and that old tale, they had been loth, Perchance, to have them told another way.-- So passed the sun from that fair summer day.
June drew unto its end, the hot bright days Now gat from men as much of blame as praise, As rainless still they passed, without a cloud, And growing grey at last, the barley bowed Before the south-east wind. On such a day These folk amid the trellised roses lay, And careless for a little while at least, Crowned with the mingled blossoms held their feast: Nor did the garden lack for younger folk, Who cared no more for burning summer's yoke Than the sweet breezes of the April-tide; But through the thick trees wandered far and wide From sun to shade, and shade to sun again, Until they deemed the elders would be fain To hear the tale, and shadows longer grew: Then round about the grave old men they drew, Both youths and maidens; and beneath their feet The grass seemed greener, and the flowers more sweet Unto the elders, as they stood around.