Virgil's Tomb

On an olive-crested steep   Hanging o’er the dusty road,   Lieth in his last abode, Wrapped in everlasting sleep, He who in the days of yore   Sang of pastures, sang of farms,   Sang of heroes and their arms, Sang of passion, sang of war. When the lark at dawning tells,   Herald like, the coming day,   And along the dusty way Comes the sound of tinkling bells, Rising to the tomb aloft,   While some modern Corydon   Drives his bleating cattle on From the stable to the croft: Then the soul of Virgil seems To awaken from its dreams, To sing again the melodies Of which he often tells,—   The music of the birds,   The lowing of the herds, The tinkling of the bells.