The laurel shoots when those have pass’d away,
Once rivals for its crown, the brave, the free;
The rose is flourishing o’er beauty’s clay,
The myrtle blows when love hath ceased to be;
Green waves the bay when song and bard are fled,
And all that round us blooms is blooming o’er the dead.
LX.
And still the olive spreads its foliage round
Morea’s fallen sanctuaries and towers.
Once its green boughs Minerva’s votaries crown’d,