Sleep and dream of peace and love:
Dream not of the band that perished
From the sacred soil they cherished,
Nor the ruthless race that roams
O’er our ancient shrines and homes.
Sleep, while autumn glories fly,
’Neath the melancholy sky,
From the trees before the storm,
Chased by winter’s tyrant form:
Oh! ’tis thus our warriors, wasted,