Yet the song midst the seas hath a thrilling power,
And he knows ’tis a chieftain’s burial-hour.
Hurriedly, in fear and woe,
Through the aisle the mourners go;
With a hush’d and stealthy tread,
Bearing on the noble dead;
Sheath’d in armour of the field—
Only his wan face reveal’d,
Whence the still and solemn gleam
Doth a strange, sad contrast seem