and moulder ’neath the sun!
The night-wolf howl’d his requiem,—
the rude winds danced his dirge;
And e’er anon, in mournful chime
sigh’s forth the mellow surge!
The spring shall teach the rising grass
to twine for him a tomb;
And, o’er the spot where he doth lie,
shall bid the wild flowers bloom.
But, far from friends, and far from home,