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 mornTheir trembling casket fills,Mix'd with that essence from the heartWhich 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 spreadsIts verdure fresh and green,And richly broiders every nicheThe velvet turf between.

I kiss'd the tender violetThat droop'd its stranger-head,And call'd it blessed thus to growSo near my precious dead;And when my venturous path shall beAcross the deep blue sea,I bade it in its beauty rise,And guard that spot for me.

There was no other child, my dead!To do this deed for thee;Mother! no other nursling babeE'er sat upon thy knee,And, father! that endearing name,No other lips than mineE'er breathed to prompt thy hallow'd prayerAt morn or eve's decline.

Tear not those flowers, thou idle child,Tear not the flowers that waveIn sweet and simple sanctityAround this humble grave,Lest guardian angels from the skies,That watch amid the gloom,Should dart reproachful ire on thoseWho desecrate the tomb.

And spare to pluck my sacred plants,Ye groups that wander nigh,When summer sunsets fire with goldThe glorious western sky,That, when your sleep is in the dust,Where now your footsteps tread,Some kindred hand may train the roseTo grace your lowly bed.