The wretched crew their o'ercharg'd bosoms smite,
And rise to join the melancholy rite.
With painful steps the burning deck they crowd,
Or pensive hang upon the slacken'd shroud;
Speechless they mark the foul presageful wave,
That, Russell—parting, opes thy fluid grave!
The jutting hatch, a sable bier, is laid,
The pitchy pall throws a funereal shade,
His honour'd corse in awful form dispos'd,
Decent his clay-cold limbs—his eyelids clos'd;