The first was he of all the crew
On deck to spring—to trim the sail—
To steer—to reef—to furl—to clew.
Now “fever dire” had seized a form
Which nature cast in happiest mould;
The bell struck midnight through the storm,
The last—the death-knell tale is told.
“Alas!” he cried—and dropped a tear,
“Before my spirit mounts the skies—
Are there no friends or messmates near