Page:Amulet 1830.pdf/5

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And I, who, in vain sympathy, These mournful words have said, Not mine the hand that can bestow The laurel on the dead: I only know thy nameless fate To me seems life's most desolate.

Methinks it is not much to die— To die, and leave behind A spirit in the hearts of men A voice amid our kind; When fame and death, in unison, Have giv'n thousand lives for one.

Our thoughts, we live again in them, Our nature's noblest part; Our life in many a memory, Our home in many a heart: When not a lip that breathes our strain, But calls us into life again.

No, give me some green laurel leaves To float down memory's wave; One tone remain of my wild songs, To sanctify my grave; And then but little should I care How soon within that grave I were.