The murmur of this Midland deep
Is heard to-night around thy grave,
There, where Gibraltar’s cannoned steep
O’erfrowns the wave.
For there, with bodily anguish keen,
With Indian heats at last foredone,
With public toil and private teen,—
Thou sank’st alone.
Slow to a stop, at morning gray,
I see the smoke-crowned vessel come;
Slow round her paddles dies away
The seething foam.
A boat is lowered from her side;
Ah, gently place him on the bench!
That spirit—if all have not yet died—
A breath might quench.
Is this the eye, the footstep fast,
The mien of youth, we used to see?
Poor, gallant boy! for such thou wast,
Still art, to me.
The limbs their wonted tasks refuse;
The eyes are glazed, thou canst not speak;
And whiter than thy white burnous
That wasted cheek!
Enough! The boat, with quiet shock,
Unto its haven coming nigh,
Touches, and on Gibraltar’s rock
Lands thee, to die.
Ah me! Gibraltar’s strand is far;
But farther yet across the brine
Thy dear wife’s ashes buried are,
Remote from thine.
For there, where morning’s sacred fount
Its golden rain on earth confers,
The snowy Himalayan Mount
O’ershadows hers.
Strange irony of fate, alas!
Which, for two jaded English, saves,
When from their dusty life they pass,
Such peaceful graves!