When this heart is cold and still, 
 And can throb for thee no more; 
When it wakes not to the thrill 
 Of the harp's wild chord; 
 Nor can e'en afford 
 A sigh to the days of yore; 

Then come to my silent tomb, 
 Which the breeze will murmur over: 
Where reigns the deepest gloom? 
 Where the bat flits by 
 And the ravens cry? 
 Thou shalt the spot discover.