Thy maiden folded to thy heart?
And shall not here her dust be blended
With this dear soil thou hast defended?
See, Axel, yonder cloud shut in
The moon. When it shines out again,
I shall be dead. My spirit then
Shall on far-distant shores begin
To pray all good, and with all eyes
Of heaven, watch thee from the skies.
Set on my grave a Southern rose,