Oh, tell me, ye breezes that spring from the west,
Oh, tell me, ere passing away,
If Leichhardt-s bold spirit has fled to its rest?
Where moulders the traveller-s 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 -scap-d from the lone one in death.

Tell me, ye breezes, ye-ve traversed the wild,
And passed o-er the desolate spot,
Where reposeth in silence sweet Nature-s own child,
Where slumbers one nearly forgot?

Ye answer me not but are passing away-
Ye breezes that spring from the west,
Unhallow-d still moulders the traveller-s clay,
For unknown is the place of his rest.