Seems hurrying on to some cold ocean grave!
Now lost to view—now soaring with the swell—
Ah! who the thoughts of that pale crew may tell!
How radiant, Home, must seem thy beauties now!
How far thy low roof from that vessel’s prow!
How angel-like fond features, sunny eyes,
Rise o’er the waves in memory’s paradise!
Sweet gentle words are heard amid the storm,
And hands are clasped, whose blood flows fast and warm.
The future breaks upon the mental sight,