"Brother! by the rolling Rhine
Stands the home that once was thine;
Brother! now thy dwelling lies
Where the Indian's arrow flies!
He that blest thine infant head
Fills a distant greensward bed;
She that heard thy lisping prayer
Slumbers low beside him there;
They that earliest with thee played,
Rest beneath their own oak-shade,
Far, far hence!—yet sea nor shore
Haply, Brother! part ye more;
God hath called thee to that band
In the immortal Father-land!"
"The Father-land!"—with that sweet word
A burst of tears 'midst the strain was heard.
"Brother! were we there with thee,
Rich would many a meeting be!
Many a broken garland bound,
Many a mourn'd one lost and found!
But our task is still to bear,
Still to breathe in changeful air;
Lov'd and bright things to resign
As ev'n now this dust of thine,
Yet to hope!—to hope in Heaven,
Though flowers fall, and trees be riven;
Yet to pray—and wait the hand
Beckoning to the Father-land."
And the requiem died in the forest's gloom,
They had reached the Exile's lonely tomb.
