And delights when he handles the mattock and pall;
Though his thin hairs are gray, and though feeble his pace,
He ne'er for himself yet has chosen a place.
Thou wert here when his sire did this office fulfil—
When the son too is gone, thou wilt blossom here still:
How strange that the grass, and the trees, and the weeds,
Flourish best on that spot whence corruption proceeds!
On thy trunk some rude sculptor has carved out his name—
Idle labour! for fleeting and false is such fame:
Lo! wherever we look there is charactered stone,