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.
