THE SAILOR'S FUNERAL.
The ship's bell tolled, and slowly o'er the deck
Came forth the summoned crew.—Bold, hardy men,
Far from their native skies, stood silent there,
With melancholy brows.—From a low cloud
That o'er the horizon hovered, came the threat
Of distant, muttered thunder. Broken waves
Heaved up their sharp, white helmets, o'er the expanse
Of ocean, which in brooding stillness lay
Like some vindictive king, who meditates
On hoarded wrongs, or wakes the wrathful war.
The ship's bell tolled!—And lo, a youthful form,
Which oft had boldly dared the slippery shrouds
At midnight's watch, was as a burden laid
Down at his comrades' feet.—Mournful they gazed
Upon his hollow cheek, and some there were
Who in that bitter hour remembered well
The parting blessing of his hoary sire,
And the fond tears that o'er his mother's cheek
Went coursing down, when his gay, happy voice
Left its farewell.—But one who nearest stood
To that pale shrouded corse, remembered more:—
Of a white cottage with its shaven lawn,
And blossomed hedge, and of a fair-haired girl
Who at her lattice, veiled with woodbine, watched
His last, far step, and then turned back to weep.
And close that comrade in his faithful breast
Hid a bright chestnut lock, which the dead youth
Had severed with a cold and trembling hand
In life's extremity, and bade him bear
With broken words of love's last eloquence
To his blest Mary.—Now that chosen friend
Bowed low his sun-burnt face, and like a child
Sobbed in deep sorrow.
But there came a tone,
Clear as the breaking moon o'er stormy seas—
"I am the resurrection!"—Every heart
Suppressed its grief, and every eye was raised.
There stood the chaplain, his uncovered brow
Unmarked by earthly passion, while his voice,
Rich as the balm from plants of paradise,
Poured the Eternal's message o'er the souls
Of dying men. It was a holy hour!
There lay the wreck of manly beauty, here
Bent mourning friendship, while supporting faith
Cast her strong anchor, where no wrathful surge
Might overwhelm, nor mortal foe invade.
There was a plunge!—The riven sea complained,
Death from her briny bosom took his own.
The troubled fountains of the deep lift up
Their subterranean portals, and he went
Down to the floor of ocean, 'mid the beds
Of brave and beautiful ones. Yet to my soul,
Mid all the funeral pomp, with which this earth
Indulgeth her dead sons, was nought so sad,
Sublime or sorrowful, as the mute sea
Opening her mouth to whelm that sailor youth.