Response

                               “No child of song
Over my grave shall pour funereal hymn,
Or chant in solemn strains my requiem.”
                                      W. H. Burleigh’s Poems

Brother! it cannot be, though sternly cold
   Grief’s iron hand hath rested on thy heart;
   Still shall thy weary spirit ne’er depart
Unblessed in song. Earth’s minions may withhold
The soul-felt dirge, and round their bosoms fold
   Pride like a mantle, smothering in their birth
   The holier passions that might struggle forth.
Yet O! my brother, there shall wake one song,
   Though my lone harp hang on the mourning willow;
   And though my bark be torn on life’s wild billow
This hand shall pluck the deathless flowers that bloom
O’er bright Peneus’ tide—and plant them on the tomb.