Thou art laid to rest! And the rank grass waves
In wild luxuriance o'er thy bed--
That lonely bed among stranger graves,
The lowly though unforgotten dead.

Those graves may be watered by tears of love,
May be decked with fair and blooming flowers,
And many a scene where the mourners rove,
May serve to solace their saddest hours.

For there, too, have wandered the loved ones fled,
And there some link of the mighty chain
That bound the heart of the living and dead,
May recall those happier hours again.

But where, on this cold, bleak earth, art thou laid?
What spot on its bosom, oh! Tempest-tost,
Can we point to, and say that there has been made
The grave of the erring friend that we have lost?

We shall never know it! Time rolls on,
And death may sever our household band,
But we never shall know where that desolate one
Met his lone death-hour, in a strange land.