For the spirit hath ta'en its leave.
The ship heaves to, and the funeral rite,
O'er the lovely form is said,
And the rough man's cheek with tears is bright,
As he lowers the gentle dead.
The corse sinks down, alone—alone,
To its dark and dreary grave,
And the soul on a lightened wing hath flown,
To the world beyond the wave.