Not a leaf of the poplar above me stirr'd,
Though it stir with a breath so lightly;
Not a farewell note sang the sweet singing bird
To the sun that was setting brightly.

I stood alone on the quiet hill,
The quiet vale before me;
And the spirit of nature serene and still
Gather'd around and o'er me.

There was the Deben's glittering flood
Far away in its channel sweeping;
And under the hill-side where I stood
The dead in their graves were sleeping.

Quiet their place of burial seem'd,
Where trouble could never enter;
And sweetly the rays of sunset beam'd
On the solitary tomb in its centre

And often when I have wander'd here,
And in many moods have view'd it,
With many a form to memory dear
My fancy has endued it.

Sometimes it look'd like a lonely sail
Far away on the deep green billow;
And sometimes like a lamb in the vale
Asleep on its grassy pillow

He that lies under was on the seas
In his days of youth a ranger;
Borne on the billow, and blown by the breeze,
Little cared he for danger.

And yet through peril and toil he kept
The freshness of gentlest feeling;
Never a tear has woman wept
A tenderer heart revealing

But here he sleeps—many there are
Who love his lone tomb and revere it;
And one who, like yon evening star
Far away, yet is ever near it.