Not here, not here! I beg it as a boon;
If ye dare weep and hope to be forgiv'n,
Lay not the poet of the village here,
Where comes no sun-light, save the grin of noon!
But to that grave-yard, full of peace and heav'n,
Where, not unhonour'd, rests a village seer,
(Who liv'd belov'd, to die forgotten soon,)
Bear ye the child of flowers. Oh, lay him near
His grand-sire's bones! for thither—when the wind
Bends the young twig, or shakes the old leaf down—
May stray (too scornful of the plunder'd town,)
Some hopeful, worth-respecting bard sublime,
Who (in man's ashes honouring human kind,)
May read the name of both, and do it into rhyme.