And the waves of adversity's tempest roll high,

Ever changeless and fervent endure?

Mistake not the fancy, that lasts but a day,

For the love which eternally thrives;

That sentiment false, is as prone to decay

As the wreath is to fade and to wither away;

And like it, it never revives.

 Shall Our Memories Live When the Sod Rolls Above Us?

Shall our memories live, when the sod rolls above us

And marks our last home with a mouldering heap?

Shall the voices of those who profess that they love us

E'er mention our names, as we dreamlessly sleep?

Will their eyes ever dim at some fond recollection,

Or their hands ever plant a small flower o'er the breast,

Or will they gaze with a sad circumspection

At the tablets, which tell of our last solemn rest?

Ah! soon shall the hearts which our memories cherish

Forget, as they strive with the cares of their own;

And even the last dim remembrance shall perish

As we peacefully slumber, unwept and unknown.

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