When my cold limbs they shroud with care,
And on my brow love's tear-drops shed,
And lay me on my ebon bier,--
Believe not then that I am dead.

And when the tolling bell shall ring
To my black coffin's muted tread
--Death's fiendish laughter, quivering,--
Believe not then that I am dead.

And when the black-robed priests shall sing,
And prayers and incense round me spread,
With faces dark and sorrowing--
Believe not still that I am dead.

When on my tomb they heap the clay,
And leave me in my lonely bed,
And loved ones turn with sobs away--
Then never think that I am dead.

But if my grave neglected lie,
My memory too be gone and fled,
And dear ones pass unheeding by,
Ah, then believe that I am dead!