On hearing a bird singing on a grave

Say, lovely warbler, dost thou knowThe sacred dust that lies belowThat little mound?Thou dweller of the airy deep,Why dost thou come to sing and weepOn hallowed ground?

What doth inspire thy gentle breast,When light scarce lingers in the west,To rest thee there?Is 't inspiration from above,Teaching thy voice to sing of love,And breathe thy prayer?

Perhaps a friend who watched thy nest,When truant school-boys were in questOf thy young brood,Now slumbers in that silent grave,Where fresh wild flowers so sweetly waveIn solitude.

And thou dear bird hast come to bringThy pure and holy offeringTo friendship's shrine;But the unconscious form below,Of thy rich incense ne'er can know;Would it were mine.

'T were sweet in thee to shun the day,And come at twilight hour to payThy homage here;No mate was near, thou cam'st alone;All other birds to rest had flown,Not one to cheer.

I watched with rapture, listened long,And fondly wished thee to prolongThy liquid notes;Thy requiem o'er, thou winged thy flight,And vanished in the gathering night,Where ether floats.

Oh, wilt thou come again, sweet bird,And let thy mellowed voice be heardAt twilight dim,Upon that humble grassy mound,Tuning thy silver notes to soundThy evening hymn?