William B. Tappan (1794–1849)

WHEN death shall lay this bosom low,

And every murmur hush to sleep,

When those that give affection now,

Shall o’er affection’s memory weep,

I would not, when life’s spark has flown,

That strangers should receive the sigh;

I would not, that a hand unknown,

Should, reckless, close the slumbering eye:

But, on some throbbing breast reclined,

That beat alone to love and me,

Each parting pang subdued, how kind,

How peaceful, would my exit be.

I would not, that this lowly head

Should pillow, cold, on foreign clay;

I would not, that my grassy bed

Should be from home and love away:

But, in my native village ground,

Near kindred dust, these relics laid:

How calm my slumbers, how profound,

Beneath the old tree’s sombre shade.