Lv

When I shall trust my corpse to earth And my soul to God’s keeping, I ask to be laid as a bard Away to my last sleeping.

Into my hand I want the lyre, On head, leaves from laure’s arbor; Let my new neighbors know at once Who comes to their calm harbor.

I always holy held the lyre And not a mere toy only: So let it be mine ornament In night long and place lonely.

Should we feel lonesome in the graves And, maybe, for home too sick, Then I shall sing a song for them And cheer them up with music.

And should in your lives sluggishness And sleep here overtake you: I’ll rouse the dead and send them back, And they shall come and wake you.