70
Jut conquered by fever's burning strife,
He has early fled from the war of life;
And now the beloved of a distant home
Must find a tomb 'mid the ocean's foam,
With none, save the spray or the cloud, to weep
O'er the stormy grave where his ashes sleep.
He has early fled from the war of life;
And now the beloved of a distant home
Must find a tomb 'mid the ocean's foam,
With none, save the spray or the cloud, to weep
O'er the stormy grave where his ashes sleep.
But hark! how the peaceful sounds of prayer
Solemnly rise on the evening air!
Telling that yet from her farthest bed
The sea must give up her uncounted dead;
For though no pastor is here to breathe
The words of peace by the bed of death,
Or in prayer o'er the senseless corse to bow,
Yet that last sad task is accomplished now
By the grey-haired chief of that gallant band,
While mute and uncovered around him stand
The dauntless spirits he oft had led
O'er the blood-stained deck, and the battle's dead;
And the hero's corse before him lies,
Wrapped in its shroud of no mournful dyes;
That pall which the brave may best become,
The meteor flag of his island home.
And now on the ear distinctly fall
Those mournful words, alas! known to all,
When that harrowing sound of woe and fear,
The rattling earth on the hollow bier,
Blends with the prayer of sorrowing love,—
Of grief below, but of hope above.
Though from home and from country far away,
Now comes that voice from the lonely sea,—
"Thou art gone; but in joyful hope to sleep,
We give thy form to the lonely deep."
Solemnly rise on the evening air!
Telling that yet from her farthest bed
The sea must give up her uncounted dead;
For though no pastor is here to breathe
The words of peace by the bed of death,
Or in prayer o'er the senseless corse to bow,
Yet that last sad task is accomplished now
By the grey-haired chief of that gallant band,
While mute and uncovered around him stand
The dauntless spirits he oft had led
O'er the blood-stained deck, and the battle's dead;
And the hero's corse before him lies,
Wrapped in its shroud of no mournful dyes;
That pall which the brave may best become,
The meteor flag of his island home.
And now on the ear distinctly fall
Those mournful words, alas! known to all,
When that harrowing sound of woe and fear,
The rattling earth on the hollow bier,
Blends with the prayer of sorrowing love,—
Of grief below, but of hope above.
Though from home and from country far away,
Now comes that voice from the lonely sea,—
"Thou art gone; but in joyful hope to sleep,
We give thy form to the lonely deep."
