Dirge

Where shall we make her grave?
Oh! where the wild-flowers wave
In the free air!
Where shower and singing-bird
Midst the young leaves are heard--
There--lay her there!

Harsh was the world to her--
Now may sleep minister
Balm for each ill:
Low on sweet nature’s breast
Let the meek heart find rest,
Deep, deep and still!

Murmur, glad waters! by;
Faint gales! with happy sigh,
Come wandering o’er
That green and mossy bed,
Where, on a gentle head,
Storms beat no more!

What though for her in vain
Falls now the bright spring-rain,
Plays the soft wind?
Yet still, from where she lies,
Should blessed breathings rise,
Gracious and kind.

Therefore let song and dew
Thence in the heart renew
Life’s vernal glow!
And o’er that holy earth
Scents of the violet’s birth
Still come and go!

Oh! then, where wild flowers wave
Make ye her mossy grave,
In the free air!
Where shower and singing-bird
Midst the young leaves are heard--
There--lay her there!