Yet shall thy grave with rising flow’rs be dressed. 
  And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast;
  There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow,
  There the first roses of the year shall blow.
Elegy to the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady.  A. POPE.

     And from his ashes may be made
  The violet of his native land.
In Memoriam, XVIII.  A. TENNYSON.

  Sweets to the sweet:  farewell,
  I hoped thou shouldst have been my Hamlet’s wife: 
  I thought thy bride-bed to have decked, sweet maid,
  And not t’ have strewed thy grave.
Hamlet, Act v.  Sc. 1.  SHAKESPEARE.

How loved, how honored once, avails thee not,
To whom related, or by whom begot;
A heap of dust alone remains of thee;
’T is all thou art, and all the proud shall be!
Elegy to the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady.  A. POPE.

                   Lay her i’ the earth;
  And from her fair and unpolluted flesh
  May violets spring!
Hamlet, Act v.  Sc. 1.  SHAKESPEARE.

Brave Percy, fare thee well! 
Ill-weaned ambition, how much art thou shrunk: 
When that this body did contain a spirit,
A kingdom for it was too small a bound;
But now, two paces of the vilest earth
Is room enough.
King Henry VI., Pt.  I. Act v.  Sc. 4.  SHAKESPEARE.

    Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone,
  Sad luxury! to vulgar minds unknown,
  Along the walls where speaking marbles show
  What worthies form the hallowed mould below;
  Proud names, who once the reins of empire held,
  In arms who triumphed, or in arts excelled;
  Chiefs, graced with scars, and prodigal of blood;
  Stern patriots, who for sacred freedom stood;
  Just men, by whom impartial laws were given;
  And saints, who taught and led the way to heaven.
On the Death of Mr. Addison.  T. TICKELL.

  The solitary, silent, solemn scene,
  Where Caesars, heroes, peasants, hermits lie,
  Blended in dust together; where the slave
  Rests from his labors; where th’ insulting proud
  Resigns his powers; the miser drops his hoard: 
  Where human folly sleeps.
Ruins of Rome.  J. DYER.

  Then to the grave I turned me to see what therein lay;
  ’T was the garment of the Christian, worn out and thrown away.
Death and the Christian.  F.A.  KRUMMACHER.

GREATNESS.

  That man is great, and he alone,
  Who serves a greatness not his own,
    For neither praise nor pelf: 
  Content to know and be unknown: 
    Whole in himself.
A Great Man.  LORD LYTTON (Owen Meredith).

  He fought a thousand glorious wars,
    And more than half the world was his,
  And somewhere, now, in yonder stars,
    Can tell, mayhap, what greatness is.
The Chronicle of the Drum.  W.M.  THACKERAY.