Now shall the feet of pensive wanderers turn,
With heedless steps from thy more classic urn;
But sadly tread the village grave-yard round,
’Midst tombs defac’d, and many a mouldering mound,
And pause and ponder where, embower’d in green,
Thy marble crowns the fair surrounding scene—
Where gentle gales their flowery fragrance strew,
And morn and eve thy lowly turf bedew—
Where the fresh sward and trembling tree-leaves wave,
While night-winds sing their dirges round thy grave—