Cease thy murmuring, Delaware,
For thy many braves so fair
Who are sleeping by thy stream—
Rouse them not—there let them dream.
For upon that silent shore
Indian's cry shall sound no more.
There, where still the owlets cry
And the solemn night-winds sigh,
Let the victor's head remain
With the spirits of the slain,
Leave the warriors fast asleep
Where the willows o'er them weep,
For thy murmuring, Delaware,
Cannot wake those sleeping there,
For thy voice deep in the foam
Cannot ever call them home.

There, where low and high degree
Sleep beneath the self-same tree,
And where warriors small and great,
Share in death a common fate,
Leave the pale-face and the braves
Side by side within their graves.

There, where ridges lifting high
Try to bridge the endless sky,
And where willows bend like lead
O'er the footprints of the dead—
To each brother slumbering there,
Sing sweet songs, my Delaware.

Requiem:

Brave!—thy happy days have fled
Into silence with the dead;
Thy canoe, thy well-worn way,
And thy bow are in decay.
And no more thy camp-fires gleam
By thy sweet, complaining stream;
And I mourn thy ruthless fate;
Weeping am I—but too late—
For upon that silent shore
Indian's cry shall sound no more.

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