Alas! too late the ship returned, too late her life to save;
My father closed her dying eyes, and laid her in the grave.
He was a man of ardent hopes, who never knew dismay;
And, spite of grief, the winter-time wore cheerfully away.
He had crossed the equinoctial line, full seven times and more,
And, sailing northward, had been wrecked on icy Labrador.
He knew the Spice isles every one, where the clove and nutmeg grow,
And the aloe towers, a stately tree, with clustering bells of snow.
He had gone the length of Hindostan, down Ganges’ holy flood;
Through Persia, where the peacocks brood, a wild bird of the wood;