Dost thou invoke upon thy poet’s dust
The sweet distilling dews of silent night:
There spring no flowers on graves by human praise
Or tears of love unhallowed!
From the days
When first the nuptial feast, and judgment seat,
And altar, softened our untutor’d race,
And taught to man his own and others’ weal,
The living treasured from the bleaching storm
And savage brute, those sad and poor remains