He sleeps beneath the spreading shade,
Where woods and wide savannas meet,
Where sloping hills around have made
A quiet valley, green and sweet.

A stream that bears his name and flows
In glimmering gushes from the west,
Makes a light murmur as it goes
Beside his lonely place of rest.

And here the silken blue-grass springs,
Low bending with the morning dew;
The red-bird in the thicket sings,
And blossoms nod of various hue.

Oh, spare his rest! oh, level not
The trees whose boughs above it play,
Nor break the turf that clothes the spot,
Nor clog the rivulet's winding way.

For he was of unblenching eye,
Honored in youth, revered in age,
Of princely port and bearing high,
And brave, and eloquent, and sage.

Ah! scorn not that a tawny skin
Wrapped his strong limbs and ample breast;
A noble soul was throned within,
As the pale Saxon e'er possessed.

Beyond the broad Atlantic deep,
In mausoleums rich and vast,
Earth's early kings and heroes sleep,
Waiting the angel's trumpet blast.

As proud in form and mien was he
Who sleeps beneath this verdant sod,
And shadowed forth as gloriously
The image of the eternal God.

Theirs is the monumental pile,
With lofty titles graved on stone,
The vaulted roof, the fretted aisle—
He sleeps unhonored and alone.

A scene he loved around him lies,
These blooming plains outspreading far,
River, and vale, and boundless skies,
With sun, and cloud, and shining star.

He knew each pathway through the wood,
Each dell unwarmed by sunshine's gleam,
Where the brown pheasant led her brood,
Or wild deer came to drink the stream.

Oft hath he gazed from yonder height,
When pausing 'mid the chase alone,
On the fair realms beneath his sight,
And proudly called them all his own.

Then leave him still this little nook,
Ye who have grasped his wide domain,
The trees, the flowers, the grass, the brook,
Nor stir his slumbering dust again.