Nahum Tate (1652–1715)

At the Tomb of Argaces

SLEEP, ye great Manes of the dead!

Whilst our solemn round we tread;

Whilst at our cell, as at a shrine,

We nightly wait with rites divine.

Whilst, to adorn the tomb, we bring

The earliest glories of the Spring;

And sweetest softest anthems sing.

The floor, with hallowed drops bedewing;

And all around fresh roses strewing.

Ye Guardian Powers, that here resort,

For ever make this cell your Court.

If devoutest prayers invite ye,

Or Sabæan gums delight ye;

Then make this sacred Urn your care,

And nightly to this cell repair,

To feast on frankincense and prayer.

Around we go, the floor bedewing;

Violets, pinks, and roses strewing.