Of the state of the pious after death, Pindar discourseth after this manner:— There the sun shines with an unsullied light, When all the world below is thick with night. There all the richly scented plants do grow, And there the crimson-colored roses blow; Each flower blooming on its tender stalk, And all these meadows are their evening walk. There trees peculiarly delight the sense, With their exhaled perfumes of frankincense. The boughs their noble burdens cannot hold, The weight must sink them when the fruit is gold. Some do the horse unto the manege bring, Others unto tlle tuneful lute do sing; There’s plenty to excess of every thing. The region always doth serene appear, The sun and pious flames do make it clear, Where fragrant gums do from the altars rise, When to the Gods they offer sacrifice. And proceeding farther, in another lamentation he spake thus concerning the soul:— Just we that distribution may call, Which to each man impartially doth fall. It doth decide the dull contentious strife, And easeth the calamities of life. Death doth its efforts on the body spend; But the aspiring soul doth upwards tend. Nothing can damp that bright and subtile flame, Immortal as the Gods from whence it came. But this sometimes a drowsy nap will take, When all the other members are awake. Fancy in various dreams doth to it show, What punishments unto each crime is due; What pleasures are reserved for pious deeds, And with what scourges the incestuous bleeds.