When we end our story.

Then in graves with roses blown,

By the hands of patriots strown,

We will sleep in glory.

THE DYING SOLDIER TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

I plead with tears to thee,

Sweet warbler of the shade,

Breathe not such strains to me,

The sweetest ever made.

Who bade thee slight my woes?

Who taught to pierce my heart?

Leave me to death's repose,

Depart, sweet bird, depart.

Still come, with every strain,

Warm dreams of woeless days;

Still beam, on life's past plain,

Love's long lost golden rays,

That gleam on forms gone by,

On friends I called my own,

Who calmly rest, while I,

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