 | Pocahontas, and other poems |  |
213
PLANTING FLOWERS ON THE GRAVE OF PARENTS.
I've set the flow'rets where ye sleep,
Father and mother dear,
Their roots are in the mould so deep,
Their bosoms bear a tear;
The tear-drop of the dewy morn
Their trembling casket fills,
Mix'd with that essence from the heart
Which filial love distils.
Father and mother dear,
Their roots are in the mould so deep,
Their bosoms bear a tear;
The tear-drop of the dewy morn
Their trembling casket fills,
Mix'd with that essence from the heart
Which filial love distils.
Above thy pillow, mother dear,
I've placed thy favourite flower,
The bright-eyed purple violet,
That deck'd thy summer-bower;
The fragrant chamomile, that spreads
Its verdure fresh and green,
And richly broiders every niche
The velvet turf between.
I've placed thy favourite flower,
The bright-eyed purple violet,
That deck'd thy summer-bower;
The fragrant chamomile, that spreads
Its verdure fresh and green,
And richly broiders every niche
The velvet turf between.
I kiss'd the tender violet
That droop'd its stranger-head,
And call'd it blessed thus to grow
So near my precious dead;
And when my venturous path shall be
Across the deep blue sea,
I bade it in its beauty rise,
And guard that spot for me.
That droop'd its stranger-head,
And call'd it blessed thus to grow
So near my precious dead;
And when my venturous path shall be
Across the deep blue sea,
I bade it in its beauty rise,
And guard that spot for me.
214
There was no other child, my dead!
To do this deed for thee;
Mother! no other nursling babe
E'er sat upon thy knee,
And, father! that endearing name,
No other lips than mine
E'er breathed to prompt thy hallow'd prayer
At morn or eve's decline.
To do this deed for thee;
Mother! no other nursling babe
E'er sat upon thy knee,
And, father! that endearing name,
No other lips than mine
E'er breathed to prompt thy hallow'd prayer
At morn or eve's decline.
Tear not those flowers, thou idle child,
Tear not the flowers that wave
In sweet and simple sanctity
Around this humble grave,
Lest guardian angels from the skies,
That watch amid the gloom,
Should dart reproachful ire on those
Who desecrate the tomb.
Tear not the flowers that wave
In sweet and simple sanctity
Around this humble grave,
Lest guardian angels from the skies,
That watch amid the gloom,
Should dart reproachful ire on those
Who desecrate the tomb.
And spare to pluck my sacred plants,
Ye groups that wander nigh,
When summer sunsets fire with gold
The glorious western sky,
That, when your sleep is in the dust,
Where now your footsteps tread,
Some kindred hand may train the rose
To grace your lowly bed.
Ye groups that wander nigh,
When summer sunsets fire with gold
The glorious western sky,
That, when your sleep is in the dust,
Where now your footsteps tread,
Some kindred hand may train the rose
To grace your lowly bed.
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