Page:The Works of Alexander Pope (1717).djvu/411

But hark! he strikes the golden lyre;
And see! the tortur'd ghosts respire,
   See shady forms advance!
 Thy stone, O Sisyphus, stands still;
 Ixion rests upon his wheel,
   And the pale spectres dance!
The furies sink upon their iron beds,
And snakes uncurl'd hang list'ning round their heads.

V.
  By the streams that ever flow,
  By the fragrant winds that blow
   O'er the Elysian flow'rs,
  By those happy souls who dwell
  In yellow meads of Asphodel,
   Or Amaranthine bow'rs;
  By the hero's armed shades
  Glitt'ring thro' the gloomy glades,
  By the youths that dy'd for love,
  Wandring in the myrtle grove,

Restore,