Blow soft, ye winds! among the dark pine trees
⁠Of this chill Northland, o'er the poet's tomb,
Whose childhood's home smiled where the scented breeze
⁠Wanders 'mid orange-bow'rs o'erladen with rich bloom —
And deck it fair, pure last-born of the snow,
⁠That first do hail the advancing feet of Spring.
So may a cov'ring meet for him below
⁠Be spread by Nature's hands — for her he lov'd to sing.

Cold lies the burning heart whose ev'ry thought
⁠Breath'd its whole fervor in impassioned song,
Still echoing in each soul its fire hath sought
⁠In that far lovely land he lov'd with love so strong —
Where now, alas! perchance there walketh one,
⁠With clasped hands beside the deep blue wave,
To whom its beauty is become as none
⁠Yearning to rest with him who sleeps in this lone grave.