The moss is green up­on the stone;
The stone lies hea­vy on the mold;
The spot is drea­ry, sad, and lone;
The for­est air is cold.

The sky above is wan and bleak;
The ground be­neath is brown and bare;
No liv­ing voice in­trudes to break
The tran­quil si­lence there.

Another breeze among the boughs,
And then ano­ther leafy show­er
Comes rust­ling down; the sad­ness grows
More and more sad each hour.

The sha­dow of the drift­ing cloud
Falls chil­ly on these gloomy firs,
Deepening the dark­ness of the wood;
Hardly a leaf­let stirs.

Quick twink­ling thro’ the lea­fy screen,
The stray­ing gleams they go and come;
Half hid­den by the shade, is seen
The old and well known tomb.

Here sleeps the mar­tyr’s wea­ry head;
Here mol­ders qui­et ho­ly dust,
With the wild wood moss ov­er­spread
Resting in si­lent trust.

No sum­mer flow­ers breathe sweet­ness here,
It is a lone for­sak­en spot;
Round lie the leaves of au­tumn sere,
The leaf that chang­es not.

Far from man’s voice of love or strife,
’Tis fit that here his grave should be,
In death an out­cast as in life—
Unnamed in his­to­ry.

Young hopes, young friend­ships, joys of earth,
Had passed him by like sum­mer dreams;
Solemn his life had been from birth,
Like march of mount­ain streams.

Changeful his lot, like yon vexed sky,
When moor­land breez­es wild­ly blow,
His wea­ry soul now rests on high,
His bo­dy sleeps be­low.

Rest, wea­ry dust, lie here an hour;
Ere long, like blos­som from the sod,
Thou shalt come forth a glo­ri­ous flow­er,
Fit for the eye of God.