Deep and deceitful as the Ocean,
And like the tides in constant motion.
B. Barton.
The prayer is said,
And the last rite man pays to man is paid;
The plashing water marks his resting-place,
And folds him round, in one long, cold embrace;
Bright bubbles for a moment sparkle o’er,
Then break, to be, like him, beheld no more;
Down, countless fathoms down, he sinks to sleep,