And every tenanted spot of ground
Shall give up its dead at the trumpet’s sound;
So I smile when I think of those lonely graves
In the far off West, where the willow waves.
O! Death’s own palace royal—where
They bury the loved, the brave, the fair!
I have gazed on thy sculptured works of art,
Bearing many a lesson to reach the heart;
The tributes of love to those who have died,
Who lie in earth’s bosom, side by side;