I burn no incense, hang no wreath
O'er this, thine early tomb:
Such cannot cheer the place of death,
But only mock its gloom.
Here odorous smoke and breathing flower
No grateful influence shed;
They lose their perfume and their power,
When offer'd to the dead.
And if, as is the Afghaun's creed,
The spirit may return,
A disembodied sense, to feed
On fragrance, near its urn—
It is enough, that she, whom thou
Didst love in living years,
Sits desolate beside it now,
And falls these heavy tears.