And mine hour of death is near;
Yet I shrink not,—sweet and holy
Is the end that knows no fear."
Scarce the words had died, and the crimson tide,
Flow'd calm in her heaving breast,
When she flew to the wave, to share his grave,
And taste of his final rest.
And the fishermen boast, who dwell on that coast,
That after the ev'ning bell
Has toll'd the hour, in sleet and in shower,