To The Memory Of John Martens Poem by Anonymous British

To the public service grateful nations raise
Proud structures, which excite to deeds praise;
While private services in corners thrown,
Howe'er deserving, never gaine one stone.
But are not lilies, which the valleys hide,
Perfect as cedars, though the mountain's pride?
Let, then, the violets their fragrance breathe,
And pines their ever verdant branches wreath
Around his grave, who, from their tender birth,
Uprear'd both Dwarf and Giant Sons of Earth,
And, though himself exotic, lived to see
Trees of his raising droop as well as he.
Those were his care, while his own bending age
His master propt, and screened from winter's rage;
'Till down he gently fell; then, with a tear,
He bade his sorrowing son transplant him here.
But, though in weakness planted, as his fruit
Always bespoke the goodness of his root,
The spirit quickening, he had power to rise,
With leaf unfading, under happier skies.