When Heaven and my last sun Shall tell my race is run, Snatched from the dwelling bright Of common light;
No marble chiselled be, That boastfulness may see A grander pomp illume My lowly tomb.
But may, in marble’s stead, Some tree with shading head Uplift its leafy screen, For ever green.
And from me, grant, O Earth! An ivy plant its birth, In close embraces bound My body round:
And may enwreathing vine To deck my tomb entwine, That all around be made A trellised shade.
Thither shall swains, each year, On my feast-day draw near, With lowing herds in view,— A rustic crew;
Who, hailing first the light With Eucharistic rite, Addressing thus the Isle,[5] Shall sing, the while:—
“How splendid is thy fame, O tomb, to own the name Of one, who fills with verse The Universe!
“Who never burned with fire Of envious desire For glorious Fate affords To mighty lords;
“Nor ever taught the use Of love-compelling juice; Nor ancient magic art Did e’er impart;