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Then peace to his ashes who planted those trees !
Supreme o'er the landscape they rise, With simple and lovely magnificence please
All bosoms, and ravish all eyes : Nor marble, nor brass could emblazon his fame,
Like his own sylvan trophies, that wave In graceful memorial, and whisper his name.
And scatter their leaves on his grave.
Ah ! thus, when I sleep in the desolate tomb,
May the laurels I planted endure, On the mountain of high immortahty bloom,
'Midst Ughtning and tempest secure ! Then ages unborn shall their verdure admire,
And nations sit under their shade, While my spirit, in secret, shall move o'er my lyre,
Aloft in their branches display'd.
Hence, dream of vain glory !— the light drop of dew, That glows in the violet's eye.
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