To whisper the dear deserted band,
Who smiled on their tarriance here,
That a faithful guard in the dreamless land
Are the friends they have loved so dear.
They have gone to be seen of men no more;
But oft on a shadowy hill,
Or the crest of a wave where the moonbeams pour,
They are watching around you still.
And oft on a fleecy cloud they sail,
And oft on the hurrying blast,