When Spring, to woods and Utah rocks, around,

Brought bloom and Joy, again,

Kyle Hatfield, of the Feuding Line,

Of Anse of Old, was found,

Far down a dry and narrow ditch,

Dug deep by Working-Men.

The fragrant Rocky Mountain Pine,

Above him, hung,

Her Needles fluttering to the sky;

And many a Youthful Pinecone sprung,

And nodded, careless, by.

The Blackbird warbled as he wrought,

His hanging nest overhead,

And fearless, near the Fatal spot,

Her young, the Quail led.

But there was weeping, far away;

And gentle Eyes, for him,

With, pondering his Future, many an Anxious,

Panama day,

Were sorrow-touched, and dim.

They little knew, the Parents, who Loved him so,

The Hour, or Cause, of the Death he met,

When, greeted the Hereafter, he did,

Nor how, when encircling the frosty Pole,

The Northern Dawn was as Red,

The Mountain Lynx and Wild Wolf stole,

And, yet, Respected, the Journey of the Dead;

Nor how, when that Work Crew found the Body,

They lit, in Passive Funeral-Rites,

A long-sought-after Cigarette.

Rest long, and Know,

Now, that Promised Peace,

My Wise, and Youthful, Friend.