Sad trophied "city of the dead!"
Far around are night dews weeping;
And cypresses their branches spread,
Where the fair and brave are sleeping.

Affection brings her wreath of willow,
And fondly decks the funeral stone,
The cold, damp earth she makes her pillow,
And only hears the night-wind's moan.

And hoary age, hath laid him down,
With the weary weight of years upon him!
And youth, in his spring morning flown,
Ere life's cold hues had shadow'd on him.

Beauty, hath joined the assembly here,
With marble brow, and close-shut eye,
And pallid lip,--while o'er her bier,
The dirge was chanted mournfully.

And roses bloom on many a grave,
With lilies fair, and violets blue,
And willows their green branches wave,
Shedding pale evening's tears of dew.

Round many a tomb _that_ flow'ret springs,
"Forget me not"--the tale it tells,
Vainly the fond appeal it brings
To Death's domain, where silence dwells!