HERE where the roses blossom, where vines round the laurels are twining,Where the turtle-dove calls, where the blithe cricket is heard, Say, whose grave can this be, with life by all the ImmortalsBeauteously planted and deck'd?--Here doth Anacreon sleep Spring and summer and autumn rejoiced the thrice-happy minstrel,And from the winter this mound kindly hath screen'd him at last.
1789.*
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