And pluck the ragged moss away,
And weeds that have “no business there?”
‘And who, with pious hand, shall bring
The flowers she cherish’d, snow-drops cold,
And violets that unheeded spring,
To scatter o’er her hallowed mould?
‘And who, while Memory loves to dwell
Upon her name for ever dear,
Shall feel his heart with passions swell,
And pour the bitter, bitter tear?