When my soul flies to the first great Giver,
Friends of the bard! let my dwelling he
By the green bank of that rippling river,
Under the shade of yon tall beech tree.
Bury me there, ye lovers of song,
When the prayers for the dead are spoken,
With my hands on my breast,
My face to the west,
And my lyre in the grave unbroken!
There, untouched by the plough or harrow,
Let the grave of the minstrel be,
Where the bank is green, and the stream is narrow,
Under the shade of yon tall beech tree!

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