ORIGINAL POETRY.
THE POET'S EPITAPH. No fervid burst of swelling words, No sculptured pomp—no trumpet tone Should tell the passer-by who sleeps Beneath that white and simple stone. A flower-grown mount —a name alone, Were all enough to tell his worth, Whose fairest deeds were little known— He sleeps in consecrated earth, But deep in many a sorrowing breast He has a nearer, holier rest. No; if ye must upon his shrine Some praise of the departed write, Oh let it be no word of thine, Which stranger eyes to gaze invite. But from amongst those words of light He modulated into song, Choose ye what most can charm the sight; And from the long recorded throng Of loftier graves that cluster near, Those touching words shall mark his bier.
St. George.
Auckland, Sept. 30th, 1851.
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New Zealander, Volume 7, Issue 571, 4 October 1851, Page 4
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136ORIGINAL POETRY. New Zealander, Volume 7, Issue 571, 4 October 1851, Page 4
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