20
Rest here, meek plants, for few intrude
To trouble this deep solitude;
But should the giddy footstep tread
Upon the ashes of the dead,
Still let the hand of rashness spare
These little plants of love to tear,
Since fond affection with a tear,
Has plac'd them for an offering here.
Adorn the grave of her who sleeps
Unconscious, while remembrance weeps,
Though ever, ever did she feel,
And mourn those pangs she could not heal.
Sev'n times the sun with swift career,
Has mark'd the circle of the year,
Since first she prest her lowly bier;
And sev'n times, sorrowing have I come,
Alone, and wandering through the gloom,
To pour my lays upon her tomb:
And I have sigh'd to see her bed
With brambles, and with thorns o'erspread,
For surely round her place of rest,
I should not let the coarse weed twine,
Who so the couch of pain has blest,
The path of want so freely drest,
And scatter'd such perfumes on mine.
It is not meet that she should be
Forgotten or unblest by me.
