Oh, tell me, ye breezes that spring from the west,
Oh, tell me, ere passing away,
If Leichhardt’s bold spirit has fled to its rest?
Where moulders the traveller’s clay?
Perchance as ye flitted on heedlessly by
The long lost was yielding his breath;
Perchance ye have borne on your wings the last sigh
That ’scap’d from the lone one in death.

Tell me, ye breezes, ye’ve traversed the wild,
And passed o’er the desolate spot,
Where reposeth in silence sweet Nature’s own child,
Where slumbers one nearly forgot?

Ye answer me not but are passing away—
Ye breezes that spring from the west,
Unhallow’d still moulders the traveller’s clay,
For unknown is the place of his rest.