Mark the lonely mound,
Where the rank weeds wave;
Mortal, thou art bound
Hither—’tis the grave!
Tho’ no sculptured stone,
None the tale reveals;
Yet a spirit tone
From beneath it steals.

Listen! it declares,
Here the weary rest;
And its tenant fares
As a bidden guest—
As a guest assured
Of a welcome there,
Free from toils endured,
Sorrow, want and care.

Welcome, peaceful bed!
When our camps expire,
Though no tears be shed,
Though no tuneful choir
Chant in mournful strains
While around our bier;
Yet, a rest remains,
Long denied us here.