Over the grave of her former friend.
God rest thee, poor maid, here silently sleeping,
To shade thy cold bed the hawthorn has grown,
And o'er thy green grave the violet is creeping,
And sweetly beside thee the wild rose has blown.
On the breeze of the night the bland fairy comes riding
And tells thy sad tale while the pale moon is gliding
Through her thin filmy clouds—and o'er thee softly sings,
Aye—and weeps as she floats on her gossamer wings.
And I o'er thy pillow would shed a soft tear,
But no pearl drop of grief has poor Ella to spare;
My own griefs were so fierce that they dried up the fountain,
Yet I'll sing thy loved name to moorland and mountain,
And o'er thy lone grave I vigil will keep,
Though the eyelids of Ella've forgotten to weep.

While the moon views her face in yon tremulous wave
I'm weaving a wreath to hang over thy grave,
Oh ! the fanciful love-chain here tenderly throws
Her arms round the lily and blushing wild rose.
But sad cypress twigs, with their sorrowful green.
Are bending and twining the flow'rets between.
When hung on the hawthorn the breeze of the night
Will rifle their fragrance and wither their bloom,
Yet the cypress will live and look green to the sight,
Of thy garland of love maiden, such was the doom.
For its flowers soon died, but the woes it had made
Had deep root in thy heart and they never could fade,
So thy lone heart was broken—the stern world did blame,
Yet death hid in his bosom thy blushes of shame ;
Thy cheek grew so pale and thy heart was so torn.
Like to Summer's last rose left to Autumn's first storm,
That he rock'd thee to rest in his conquering arm.