Full Lyrics
Hushed in death the minstrel lies,
By his tomb bright eyes are weeping;
Mute and tuneless in the willow
Hangs the harp his touch could thrill.
Cold he's sleeping; earth his pillow,
But yet his soul is with us still.
Time may move with changeful course,
Yet the bard will live in story:
Unborn millions chant the praise
His strains on earth have won.
