Hic, O viator, sub Lare parvulo
Couleius hic est conditus, hic jacet;
Defunctus humani laboris
Sorte, supervacuâque vitâ.
Non indecora pauperie nitens,
Et non inerti nobilis otio,
Vanoque dilectis popello
Divitiis animosus hostis.
Possis ut illum dicere mortuum,
En terra jam nunc quantula sufficit!
Exempta sit curis, viator;
Terra sit illa levis, precare.
Hic sparge flores, sparge breves rosas,
Nam vita gaudet mortua floribus,
Herbisque odoratis corona
Vatis adhuc cinerem calentem.
O wayfarer, beneath his household shrine
Here Cowley lies, closed in a little den;
A life too empty and his lot combine
To give him rest from all the toils of men.
Not shining with unseemly shows of want,
Nor noble with the indolence of ease;
Fearless of spirit as a combatant
With mob-loved wealth and all its devotees.
That yon may fairly speak of him as dead,
Behold how little earth contents him now!
Pray, wayfarer, that all his cares be fled.
And that the earth lie lightly on his brow.
Strew flowers here, strew roses soon to perish,
For the dead life joys in all flowers that blow;
Crown with sweet herbs. bank blossoms high, to cherish
The poet's ashes that are yet aglow.
Henry Morley.