IN the depths of a Forest secluded and wild,The night voices whisper in passionate numbers;And I'm leaning again,as I did when a child,O'er the grave where my father so quietly slumbers.
The years have rolled by with a thundering sound But I knew,O ye woodlands,affection would know it,And the spot which I stand on is sanctified ground By the love that I bear to him sleeping below it.
Oh!well may the winds with a saddening moan Go fitfully over the branches so dreary;And well may I kneel by the time-shattered stone,And rejoice that a rest has been found for the weary.
