The flowers of nature here shall thrive,
Affection keep those flowers alive;
And they shall strike the melting heart,
Beyond the utmost power of art;
Planted on graves[1], their stems entwine,
And every blossom is a line
[Footnote 1: To the custom of scattering flowers over the graves of
departed friends, David ap Gwillym beautifully alludes in one of his odes.
"O whilst thy season of flowers, and thy tender sprays thick of leaves
remain, I will pluck the roses from the brakes, the flowerets of the
meads, and gems of the wood; the vivid trefoil, beauties of the ground,
and the gaily-smiling bloom of the verdant herbs, to be offered to the
memory of a chief of fairest fame. Humbly will I lay them on the grave of
Iver."
On a grave in the church-yard at Hay, or the Hay, as it is commonly
spoken, flowers had evidently been _planted_, but only one solitary sprig
of sweet-briar had taken root.]
Indelibly impress'd, that tends,
In more than language comprehends,
To teach us, in our solemn hours,
That we ourselves are dying flowers.

What if a father buried here
His earthly hope, his friend most dear,
His only child? Shall his dim eye,
At poverty's command, be dry?
No, he shall muse, and think, and pray,
And weep his tedious hours away;
Or weave the song of woe to tell,
How dear that child he lov'd so well.