by Blanche Cotton.
Originally published in Ainsworth's Magazine: A Miscellany of Romance (Chapman and Hall) vol.4 #18 (Jul 1843).
Lay the weary to his rest—
Dig his chamber deep,
Pile the turf upon his breast,
Soundly let him sleep;
O'er his pillow's sunless gloom
Vainly summer flowers shall bloom—
Vainly winter winds shall rave
O'er his quiet grave!
"We lay the weary to his rest,"
We dig his chamber deep,
The green turf on his head is press'd,
Soundly he shall sleep.
The lark's high note he shall not hear,
Nor summer night-bird mourning near,
Nor howling blast, nor breaking wave,
So quiet is his grave.
Gentle spirit!—noble heart!
We dig thy chamber deep;
Thou, that didst so soon depart,
Soundly shalt thou sleep,
Soft shall sound thy lullaby—
The yew-tree boughs shall rustle by—
The willow twigs shall weeping wave,
O'er thy quiet grave.
Now thy narrow home we close,
Soundly shalt thou sleep;
We, that would with thee repose—
We must watch and weep.
Summer flowers but bloom to die,
Winter blasts go sweeping by,
Thou shalt never hear them rave,
So quiet is thy grave.