In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er,
Like coarsest clothes against the cold; But that large grief which these enfold Is given in outline and no more.
DEAD, IN A FOREIGN LAND.
IX.
Fair ship, that from the Italian shore
Sailest the placid ocean-plains With my lost Arthur's loved remains, Spread thy full wings, and waft him o'er.
So draw him home to those that mourn
In vain; a favorable speed Ruffle thy mirrored mast, and lead Through prosperous floods his holy urn.
All night no ruder air perplex
Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bright As our pure love, through early light Shall glimmer on the dewy decks.
Sphere all your lights around, above;
Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow; Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now, My friend, the brother of my love;
My Arthur, whom I shall not see
Till all my widowed race be run; Dear as the mother to the son, More than my brothers are to me.
THE PEACE OF SORROW
XI.