Take to thy lap, dear earth, the good old boy,
Who did thy tasks with such a loving joy;
Training thee now an olive, heaping thee
With rustling beauteous bread, and viny glee;
And guiding to thy roots his furrowy showers,
Making thee now all fruit, and now all flowers.
Wherefore lie lightly on his temples grey,
And let the turf that wraps him, flower in May.