Works

And 'mid the awful stillness
Of their grave,
The forest oaks have flourished
And the breath
Of years hath swept their races,
Wave on wave,
As ages fainted
On the shores of death....

Peace to the dead! The forest weaves,
Around your couch, its shroud of leaves;
While shadows dim and silence deep,
Bespeak the quiet of your sleep.

Rest, pilgrim, here! Your journey o'er,...

At evening it rose in the hollow glade,
Where wild-flowers blushed 'mid silence and shade;
Where, hid from the gaze of the garish noon,
They were slily wooed by the trembling moon....