No flowers to lay upon his little breast,
⁠No passing-bell to call his spirit home,
But gliding gently to his place of rest,
⁠Parting, 'mid tears, at eve, the ocean foam.

No turf was round him,—but the lifting surge
⁠Entombed those lids that closed so calm and slow,
While solemn winds, like a cathedral dirge,
⁠Sighed o'er his form a requiem sad and low.

Ah, who shall tell the maddening grief of love
⁠That swept her heart-strings in that hour of woe?—
Weep, childless mother, but O, look above
⁠For aid that only Heaven can now bestow.

​Gaze, blue-eyed mourner, on that silken hair,—
⁠Weep, but remember that thy God will stand
Beside thee here in all this, wild despair,
⁠As on the green mounds of thy Fatherland.