Oh think not that with garlands crown'd
Inhuman near thy grave we tread,
Or blushing roses scatter round,
To mock the paleness of the dead.

What though we drain the fragrant bowl
In flowers adorn'd, and silken vest;
Oh think not, brave departed soul,
We revel to disturb thy rest.

Feign'd is the pleasure that appears,
And false the triumph of our eyes;
Our draughts of joy are dash'd with tears,
Our songs imperfect end in sighs.

We only mourn; o'er flowery plains
To roam in joyous trance is thine;
And pleasures unallied to pains,
Unfading sweets, immortal wine.