THE POET'S WISH.
It was a sad, mysterious joy,The poet gave his buried friend,That to his country's native flowerHis mouldering corse should beauty lend.
Grief, to sublime of passion wrought,A Guardian at thy tomb shall stand,"And, from thine ashes may be madeThe violet of thy native land."
It were a thought of bitterness,In height and flush of life, to knowThat, from our forms exanimateSome baneful poison plant should grow.
Thus, happier he to whose lone graveNor Love, nor Fame, its tribute gives,Than who, illustrious, leaves a seedTo harm the simplest soul that lives.
