Basil Lajeunesse

By the beautiful Lake TLAMATH 
      Sleeps Basil Lajeunesse,
With his arms upon his bosom, 
      And his mantle on his face.
The Pines' aeolian murmur 
      Is over him forever,
And a moaning, moaning, moaning, 
      A melancholy moaning,
      Like a widow's lone intoning,
Joins, from the muffled motion 
      Of the darkly-rolling river.

By the beautiful Lake Tlamath 
      Sleeps Basil Lajeunesse ;
He has fought the good life-battle,
      He has run the manly race. 
We mourned him like a brother,
      For we knew him but to love him; 
And the dripping, dripping, dripping,
      The musical, low dripping
      Of the dew-drops, was in keeping 
With the tears that, in our silence,
      Shed we, womanly, above him.

By the beautiful Lake Tlamath
      Sleeps Basil Lajeunesse, 
The young, the swift, the beautiful.
      With every manly grace; 
The virgins of Canadia,
      Far, far away shall mourn him; 
And the wailing, wailing, wailing.
      The weary west-wind's wailing,
      Will waft them one unfailing 
Memorial, low monody.
      From the bed where we have borne him.

By the beautiful Lake Tlamath 
      Sleeps Basil Lajeunesse,
But not long shall sleep forgotten
      In a solitary place! 
The Future's fair-haired Virgins,
      Along that moon-lit river, 
In a soothing, soothing, soothing,
      Soft threnode, spirit-soothing,
      The ruffled night air smoothing 
With the beautiful Lake Tlamath
      Shall weave his name forever!