It was a wintry scene;
The hills were whitened o'er,
And the chill north wind was blowing keen
Along the rocky shore.

Gone was the wild bird's lay,
That the summer forests fills;
And the voice of the stream had passed away
From its course among the hills.

And the low sun coldly smiled
Through the boughs of the ancient wood,
When a hundred souls, sire, wife and child,
Around a coffin stood.

And they raised it gently up,
And through the untrodden snow
They bore it away, with a solemn step,
To a woody yale below.

And grief was in each eye,
As they moved toward the spot;
And brief low speech, and tear, and sigh,
Told that a friend was not.

As they laid his cold form low,
In the dark and narrow cell;
Heavy the mingled earth and snow
Upon his coffin fell.

Weeping they passed away
And left him there alone,
With no mark to tell where the dead friend lay,
But the mossy forest stone.

When the winter storms were gone,
And the strange birds sang around,
Green grass and violets sprung upon
That spot of holy ground.

And o'er him ancient trees
Their branches waved on high,
And rustled music in the breeze
That wandered through the sky.

When these were overspread
With the hues that autumn gave,
They bowed them to the wind, and shed
Their leaves upon his grave.

And centuries are flown,
Since they laid his relics low;
And his bones were mouldered to dust, and strown
To the breezes long ago.

Those woods are perished now,
And that humble grave forgot;
And the yeoman sings as he drives his plough
O'er that once sacred spot.

And they who laid him there—
That sad and suffering train,
Now sleep in death—to tell us where
No lettered stones remain.

Their mighty works shall last,
Their memory remain
While years consume the structures vast
Of Egypt's storied plain.