If yet the pious earth, that nourished once
Their ripening youth, in her maternal breast
Yielding a last asylum, shall protect
Their sacred relics from insulting storms,
Or step profane—if some secluded stone
Preserve their name, and flowery verdure wave
Its fragrant shade above their honored dust.
But he who leaves no heritage of love,
Is heedless of an urn; and if he look
Beyond the grave, his spirit wanders lost