John Anster (1793–1867)

IF I might choose where my tired limbs shall lie

When my task here is done, the Oak’s green crest

Shall rise above my grave—a little mound

Raised in some cheerful village-cemetery—

And I could wish, that, with unceasing sound

A lonely mountain rill was murmuring by—

In music—through the long soft twilight hours;—

And let the hand of her, whom I love best,

Plant round the bright green grave those fragrant flowers,

In whose deep bells the wild-bee loves to rest—

And should the robin, from some neighbouring tree,

Pour that dear song of her’s—oh, softly tread,

For sure, if aught of Earth can sooth the Dead,

He still must love that pensive melody!