1 Mark the lonely mound, where the rank weeds wave;
Mortal, thou art bound hither—’tis the grave!
Tho’ no sculptured stone, none the tale reveals;
Yet a spirit tone from beneath it steals.

2 Listen! it declares, "Here the weary rest";
And its tenant fares as a bidden guest—
As a guest assured of a welcome there,
Free from toils endured, sorrow, want and care.

3 Welcome, peaceful bed! when our camps expire,
Though no tears be shed, though no tuneful choir
Chant in mournful strains while around our bier;
Yet, a rest remains, long denied us here.