For not to this old churchyard where I stand
Is audience of the dead, through flow'rs, confined
A nation's heart—a nation's love—combined,
Make it the sweet observance of the land.
In humble cot—in proud patrician halls,
The Floral Festival fills every breast;
And o'er the grass, where'er the loved ones rest,
The lowly flow'r with choice exotic falls.
And as they fall upon the sacred spot,
Sacred to every heart that strews them there,
They seem to sing in voices low and clear:
"Though gone for evermore—forgotten not!
"Though never more—still evermore—above
"Eternal will their deathless spirits reign.
"No more until above to meet again:
"Till then send up sweet messages of love."
So sang the blossoms with their odorous breath—
Or so in fancy sang they unto me;
"No more—yet evermore, eternally!
"Though lost, alas! remembered still in death!"