CHARGE TO THE PLAYERS

Shades, that our town-fellows have come

To hear rewake for Christendom

This cleansing of a Pagan wrong

In flowing tides of tragic song,—

You shadows that the living call

To walk again the Trojan wall,—

You lips and countenance renewed

Of an immortal fortitude,—

Know that, among the silent rows

Of these our daily town-fellows,

Watching the shades with these who bring

But mortal ears to this you sing,

There somewhere sits the Greek who made

This gift of song, himself a shade.