O’er whose lone grave the wild winds coldly sweep;
Weep for the dead, yet make but little weeping,
He lies at peace, unbroken is his sleep.
His last fond look of love on thee was resting,
His hands last feeble pressure met thine own;
It was of thee he made his last requesting,
Fell on thy ear his last, sweet, lingering tone.
Weep that ye hear his steps no more returning,
That he in darkness and in stillness lies;
Make not for him a long and bitter mourning,