Their grateful odors; vases rich received
The mourners’ votive tears. There pious friends
Enticed the day’s pure beam to gild the gloom
Of monuments—for man his dying eye
Turns ever to the sun; and every breast
Heaves its last sigh toward the departing light!
There fountains flung aloft their silvery spray,
Watering sweet amaranths and violets
Upon the funeral sod; and he who came
To commune with the dead, breathed fragrance round,