For a chief, with sword, and shield, and helm, to his place of slumber gone.
Thou art come from long-forsaken homes, wherein our young days flew,
Thou hast found sweet voices lingering there, the loved, the kind, the true;
Thou callest back those melodies, though now all changed and fled—
Be still, be still, and haunt us not with music from the dead!
Are all these notes in thee, wild wind? these many notes in thee?
Far in our own unfathom’d souls their fount must surely be;
Yes! buried, but unsleeping, there thought watches, memory lies,
From whose deep urn the tones are pour’d through all earth’s harmonies.