LIX.
Oh, thus it is with man! A tree, a flower,
While nations perish, still renews its race,
And o’er the fallen records of his power
Spreads in wild pomp, or smiles in fairy grace.
The laurel shoots when those have pass’d away,
Once rivals for its crown, the brave, the free;
The rose is flourishing o’er beauty’s clay,
The myrtle blows when love hath ceased to be;
Green waves the bay when song and bard are fled,
And all that round us blooms is blooming o’er the dead.