When death shall lay this bosom low,
And every murmur hush to sleep,
When those that give affection now,
Shall o'er affection's memory weep-- I would not, when life's spark has flown,
That strangers should receive the sigh;
I would not that a hand unknown,
Should, reckless, close the slumbering eye; But, on some throbbing breast reclined,
That beat alone to love and me;
Each parting pang subdued, how kind,
How peaceful would my exit be! I would not that this lovely head
Should pillow, cold, on foreign clayl;
I would not that my grassy bed
Should be from home and love away: But, in my native village ground,
Near kindred dust, these relics laid:
How calm my slumbers, how profound,
Beneath the old tree's sombre shade!