The Shipwreck.
[William Falconer.—Air, "The Mariner's Dirge."]
Ye lost companions of distress, adieu!
Your toils, and pains, and dangers are no more;
The tempest now shall howl unheard by you,
While ocean smites in vain the trembling shore.
On you the blast, surcharged with rain and snow,
In winter's dismal nights no more shall beat;
Unfelt by you the vertic sun may glow,
And scorch the panting earth with baneful heat.
The thundering drum, the trumpet's swelling strain
Unheard, shall form the long embattled line;
Unheard, the deep foundations of the main
Shall tumble, when the hostile squadrons join.
What though no funeral pomp, no borrowed tear,
Your hour of death to gazing crowds shall tell,
Nor weeping friends attend your sable bier,
Who sadly listen to the passing bell!
What tho' no sculptur'd pile your name displays,
Like those who perish in their country's cause!
What though no epic muse in living lays,
Records your dreadful daring with applause!
Yet shall remembrance from oblivion's veil
Believe your scene, and sigh with grief sincere,
And soft compassion, at your tragic tale,
In silent tribute pay her kindred tear.