Some last kind honor to the dead?
‘Tis silent all—again begin;
It is the wearied boatman’s lay,
That hails alike the rising sun,
And his last soft departing ray.
Forth from yon island’s dusky side,
The train of batteaux now appear,
And onward as they slowly glide,
More loud their chorus greets the ear.
But, ah! the charm that distance gave,