Unto the story of his dying
And how, in God’s white slumber lying,
His laureled brow is lulled to-night.
III.
Dear friends, I would not mock your sorrow
With this poor wreath that ere to-morrow
Shall fade and perish—little worth;
But from the mountains that lament him,
And from these vales whose violets lent him
Their fragrance; from around the earth,