How sweet is the turf on the grave of my friend

How sweet is the turf on the grave of my friend,
Where the joy of my heart, wrapt in slumber, reposes!
On the dew-spangled sod how the morning rays blend,
Like the bright, airy colors that evening discloses!

And bright be the rays,—for a soul that was bright
As the star of the morning here peacefully slumbers:
O where is the mortal so dear to my sight!
O what sounds are so sweet as his harp's lively numbers!

He tuned all the chords of his harp to a strain—
It seemed as if angels were waking their lyres:
There seemed every wild-warbling bird on the plain,
When his fingers swept gracefully over the wires.

But there always was heard in his liveliest notes
A slight strain of sorrow, that breathed in my ear,
As when on the west-wind the dirge sweetly floats,
And from the eye gently elicits the tear.

I have heard him, when sorrowful, pour on the gale
Such soft notes of sadness, I wept at the sound;
It seemed that the turtle-dove's heart-breathing wail
Was filling the pines that waved gloomily round.

He would sweep o'er the chords all the power of his arm,
And wake such a strain,—'t was alive to my soul,—
So sweet, 't would each pang of my bosom disarm,
And bid all my feelings in ecstasy roll.

But, minstrel of Nature! thy soul breathes no more,
Thine eye darts no longer enlivening fire;
O, ne'er shall thy harp its wild witchery pour,—
No descant of sorrow e'er flow from thy lyre.

Life's sea was too stormy for bosoms like thine,—
As well might the child front the tempest's loud wave;
But I'll often retire to weep over thy shrine,
And the turf shall for ever grow green on thy grave.
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