The honours of its slender form,
And in its loneliness had braved
The autumn’s blast—the winter’s storm.
Some friendly hand the tribute gave,
To mark the undistinguished grave,
That, drooping o’er that sod, it might
Repay a world’s neglectful scorn,
And, catching sorrow from the night,
There weep a thousand tears at morn.
It was an emblem of himself—