No tears of deep affection ever blend
With the soft dews and gentle rains that fall
Upon the turf that lies above thy breast;
But, oh! the spot is hallowed. There the Spring,
The bright Spring, yearly throws her loveliest wreaths
Of buds and blossoms—there, at morn and eve,
The viewless spirit of the zephyr breathes
Its holiest whispers in the springing grass
As if communing with thee—there the birds
Glance through the air like winged souls, and pour