49
LINES,
On the death of the Rev. Mr. Washburn, of Farmington, Connecticut, during a storm at midnight, while on his passage to South-Carolina, for the benefit of his health, accompanied by his wife.
THE southern gale awoke, its breath was mild,
The hoary face of mighty ocean smil'd;
Silent he lay, and o'er his breast did move
A little bark that much he seem'd to love;
He lent it favouring winds of steady force,
And bade the zephyrs waft it on its course;
So on its trackless[1] way, it mov'd sublime,
To bear the sick man to a softer clime.
Then night came on; the humid vapours rose,
And scarce a gale would fan the dead repose;
It seem'd as if the cradled storms did rest,
As infants dream upon the mothers breast.
But when deep midnight claim'd his drear domain,
And darkly prest the sick man's couch of pain,
