I
The flowers lie faded on his mound,
The rose and lily are decayed;
The stam’ring words of praise, we said,
Did vanish almost with their sound.
The throng that stood around his bier,
Is scattered in accustomed ways;
And now and then a neighbor says:
“This was the saddest of the year.”
Alas, if this was all we gave;
Then were our eulogies a shame;
Unworthy of his noble name,
A mockery around his grave.
II
A month has passed, and April showers
Have come and gone upon the scene;
The fields are turning deeper green,
And leaves are growing into bowers.
The butter-cup and violet
Appear among old leaves and grass,
The Iris stands where runnels pass
Into the larger rivulet.
The meadow-lark sings in the fields,
The thrush chants in the willow-hedge,
And mid the marsh and from the sedge
The blackbirds merry music peals.
Thus spring has conquered winter’s gloom
The spring, we hoped would give him strength,
Its life increase his journey’s length,
Even though a little from the tomb.