Till waves of trouble round you roar?
Ah! now I know; you linger here,
Your father's lonely hours to cheer.
Death would not pluck the last fair flower,
That bloomed in his connubial bower;
He fondly loves his orphan boys,
They half restore his withered joys.
Sweet rosebuds, springing from the tomb,
Long round his hearthstone may you bloom,
With smiles of love your father greet,