When death with no unwelcome touch
Shall free my weary sprite,
I would not be lamented much,
Nor yet forgotten quite.
Let art devise no sounding mask
Affliction's voice to aid;
The softest sigh is all I ask
To soothe my wistful shade.
The tribute of a silent tear
Would satisfy the claim
Of one who found few friendships here,
And never dreamt of fame.
No marble mound to load my breast
Should I arise to sue,
Would Love his constancy attest
With a fresh flower or two.
While Memory, from her grassy seat,
Might now and then incline
O'er the mute rhymster to repeat
A verse of his, — a line.
With such memorials to endear
Some lone, sepulchral spot,
I should not wake too sad a tear,
Nor yet be quite forgot.