And 'mid the awful stillness

Of their grave,

The forest oaks have flourished—

And the breath

Of years hath swept their races,

Wave on wave,

As ages fainted

On the shores of death.

The tumbling cliff perchance

Hath thundered deep,

Like a rough note

Of music in the song

Of centuries, and the whirlwind's

Crushing sweep,

Hath ploughed the forest

With its furrows strong.