When from this prison-house of clay
My vexed spirit shall pass away,
To the mighty land of eternity,
Oh, lay me not among mouldering bones,
Where the moon shines cold upon marble stones,
Where for ever some hopeless mourner groans
O'er the dust of them that peaceful lie.

I would not have my dwelling made
By the careless sexton's rusty spade;
Nor in silver-plated coffin sleep;
No funeral wain shall bear me on
To the final home where all have gone;
Oh no; I would rest in some forest lone,
Or be cradled in the rolling deep.

In some woodland glade where the sunbeams fall
On my flower-sprinkled emerald pall,
In whose shade the tuneful nightingale
Might sing my dirge to the dark blue skies,
Till tears should drop from their sparkling eyes,
And the sleeping winds awake in sighs,
And wildly join in the artless wail.

Or else in the billow's embrace I'd lie,
Where the cold green spray might o'er me fly
With a soft and pleasant murmuring,
Like the mother's lullaby above
The sleeping infant of her love;
Where the feet of the tempest alone can move,
There would I rest like an Ocean King.