If I might chuse, where my tired limbs shall lie
When my task here is done, the Oak's green crest
Shall rise above my grave--a little mound
Raised in some cheerful village--cemetery--
And I could wish, that, with unceasing sound,
A lonely mountain rill was murmuring by--
In music--through the long soft twilight hours;--
And let the hand of her, whom I love best,
Plant round the bright green grave those fragrant flowers,
In whose deep bells the wild--bee loves to rest--
And should the robin, from some neighbouring tree,
Pour that dear song of her's--oh, softly tread,
For sure, if aught of Earth can soothe the Dead,
He still must love that pensive melody!