But Christian eyes beheld them ne’er again.
Sad bourne of all his toils—with all his band—
To sleep, wrecked, shroudless, on a savage strand!
Yet what is all that fires a hero’s scorn
Of death?—the hope to live in hearts unborn:
Life to the brave is not its fleeting breath,
But worth—foretasting fame, that follows death.
That worth had La Perouse—that meed he won;
He sleeps—his life’s long stormy watch is done.
In the great deep, whose boundaries and space