Far around are night dews weeping;
And cypresses their branches spread,
Where the fair and brave are sleeping.
Affection brings her wreath of willow,
And fondly decks the funeral stone,
The cold, damp earth she makes her pillow,
And only hears the night-wind's moan.
And hoary age, hath laid him down,
With the weary weight of years upon him!
And youth, in his spring morning flown,