Oh, tell me, ye breezes that spring from the west,
Oh, tell me, ere passing away,
If Leichhardts bold spirit has fled to its rest?
Where moulders the travellers clay?
Perchance as ye flitted on heedlessly by
The long lost was yielding his breath;
Perchance ye have borne on your wings the last sigh
That scapd from the lone one in death.
Tell me, ye breezes, yeve traversed the wild,
And passed oer the desolate spot,
Where reposeth in silence sweet Natures own child,
Where slumbers one nearly forgot?
Ye answer me not but are passing away
Ye breezes that spring from the west,
Unhallowd still moulders the travellers clay,
For unknown is the place of his rest.
