George Lunt (1803–1885)

AY, leave him alone to sleep forever,

Till the strong archangel calls for the dead,

By the verdant bank of that rushing river,

Where first they pillow’d his mighty head.

Lowly may be the turf that covers

The sacred grave of his last repose;

But, O! there’s a glory round it hovers,

Broad as the daybreak, and bright as its close.

Though marble pillars were reared above him,

Temples and obelisks, rich and rare—

Better he dwells in the hearts that love him,

Cold and lone as he slumbers there.

Why should ye gather with choral numbers?

Why should your thronging thousands come?

Who will dare to invade his slumbers,

Or take him away from his narrow home.

Well he sleeps in the majesty,

Silent and stern, of awful death!

And he who visits him there, should be

Alone with God and his own hush’d breath.

Revel and pomp would profane his ashes:

And may never a sound be murmur’d there

But the glorious river’s that by him dashes,

And the pilgrim’s voice in his heartfelt prayer!

But leave him alone!—To sleep forever!

Till the trump, that awakens the countless dead,

By the verdant bank of that rushing river,

Where first they pillow’d his mighty head.