Sure the last end
Of the good man is peace!—how calm his exit!
Night-dews fall not more gently to the ground,
Nor weary worn-out winds expire so soft!
Blair.
The good are better made by ill,
As odours crushed, are better still.
Rogers.
As flowers which night, when day is o’er, perfume,
Breathes the sweet memory from a good man’s tomb.