< O'er my poor Anna's lowly grave, 

 No dirge shall sound, no knell shall ring, 



But angels, as the high pines wave, 

 Their half-said Miserere sing. 



' No flowers of transient bloom at eve 

 The maidens of the turf shall strew, 



Nor sigh, as the sad spot they leave, 

 Sweets to the sweet, a long adieu.' " 



