Where wilt thou lay him?
Husband. See’st thou where the spire
Of yon dark cypress reddens in the sun
To burning gold?—there—o’er yon willow-tuft?
Under that native desert monument
Lies his lone bed. Our Hubert, since the dawn,
With the gray mosses of the wilderness
Hath lined it closely through; and there breathed forth,
E’en from the fulness of his own pure heart,
A wild, sad forest hymn—a song of tears,