No passing bell to note his spirit home—
We lowered him gently to his place of rest,
Parting with tears at eve the ocean foam.
No turf was round him, but the heaving surge
Entombed those lids that closed so calm and slow,
While solemn winds, with their cathedral dirge,
Sighed o’er his form a requiem sad and low.
Ah! who shall tell the maddening grief of love
That swept her heart-strings in this hour of wo!
Weep, childless mother! but, oh, look above