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Come back to be buried beneath the green willow,
  Whose long weeping branches trail over the tomb;
The soil of thy birthplace prepares thee a pillow,—
  Where kindled thy morn, for thy eve there is room.

Come back to be buried, where patriarchs holy
  In faith breathed thy name at the altar of prayer;
Come back, from thy greatness, to sleep with the lowly,
  Where pride sounds no trumpet, and fame is but air.

Come back to be buried, where honor first found thee,
  And o'er thee her mantle deliciously flung;
Come back with thy robe of renown wrapped around thee,
  To rest where thy garlands in youth o'er thee hung.

Come back to be buried, as blossomings vernal
  Fall back to the soil whence their beauty was born;
As sunset clouds glitter in glory supernal,
  Returned from the earth which they moistened at morn.

Come back to be buried,—but still shall be crescent
  Of fame, early won, the record illume;
As chaplets of love, made sempervirescent,
  Are saved from the night and the damps of the tomb.

Come back to be buried,—mowed down by the Reaper,
  Whose pitiless scythe spares nor manhood nor bloom;
Come back to be buried, O lone, silent sleeper,
  Thy kindred await thee,—come, pilgrim, come home.