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Ah, ye who have buried the sweet poet here,
How cold were your hearts, and your hands insincere,
His works ye could never have read;
For had ye been read in his works, ye had spared
The pomp and the stone which your honour prepared,
And minded the words he had said:—
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“Earth’s cultur’less buds, to my heart ye were dear,
Ere the fever of passion, or ague of fear,
Had scared my existence’s bloom;
Once I welcome you more in life’s passionless stage
With the visions of youth to revisit my age,
And I wish you to grow on my tomb.”
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Who shall hope, unless bound by the law’s heavy chains,
Friends will care for a wish as regards your remains,
When the breath has concluded life’s hours?
How little the poet’s fond wish is obeyed,
He sleeps amidst bards in Death’s dismal parade,
But not, as he wish’d, among flowers!
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