LVIII.
On the mid-seas a knell!—for man was there,
Anguish and love—the mourner with his dead!
A long, low-rolling knell—a voice of prayer—
Dark glassy waters, like a desert spread—
And the pale-shining Southern Cross on high,
Its faint stars fading from a solemn sky,
Where mighty clouds before the dawn grew red:
Were these things round me? Such o’er memory sweep
Wildly, when aught brings back that burial of the deep.