Poems (David)/The Seaman's Grave
THE SEAMAN'S GRAVE.
HOW little we dream of the seaman's grave,
Where lowly he lies 'neath the treacherous wave,
Engulphed far down in the cold ocean's breast,
Sleeping the sleep of the weary at rest.
The sea in fond sport with her treasures rare,
Encircles unseen his brine matted hair,
And pillows in peace his lowly laid head,
Deeming corals his due for an ocean bed.
No tablet records the deeds he has won,
No marble makes note of what he has done,
Unknown he has died—unknown he must be,
Till the trumpet awakens the dead from the sea.
Where lowly he lies 'neath the treacherous wave,
Engulphed far down in the cold ocean's breast,
Sleeping the sleep of the weary at rest.
The sea in fond sport with her treasures rare,
Encircles unseen his brine matted hair,
And pillows in peace his lowly laid head,
Deeming corals his due for an ocean bed.
No tablet records the deeds he has won,
No marble makes note of what he has done,
Unknown he has died—unknown he must be,
Till the trumpet awakens the dead from the sea.