"THERE'S SOME ONE FALLEN!"

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"THERE'S SOME ONE FALLEN !"

SCARCE ten days out of port, we had a gale,
A sky all wildness, and a sea that rolled
Foaming and

angry, and a dismal wail

Of storm-winds in the rigging. Bold, ah! bold Was then the seaman, that a rending sail

To furl, dared brave the storm aloft, and hold

Danger at bay out on the slippery yard,

With but a foot-rope frail his life from harm to guard.

At duty's call, four men aloft up springing,

On such a rope unhesitating trod;

When lo! it failed, and there, for life fast clinging To the smooth spar, or aught of rope or rod

Their grasp could fix on, these four men were swinging

Sport for the winds! And yet, praise be to God!

None perished. Sure, oh! sure, it was an Arm Of power unseen alone that shielded them from harm.

Sad peril; yet, alas! the peril past

Seemed but the presage of a sadder still. An hour scarce gone, and buffeting the blast, A man of sinewy frame, and with the thrill

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Of a warm gushing life within, held fast

The same yard-arm, and there amid the chill Of a rude wind and rain, performed his partA seaman true and bold, with a true seaman's heart.

But lo! a leaden sound on deck

-a cry

"There's some one fallen!" And anon all rush To where, pale, bruised, and motionless, doth lie One that just now was in the prime and flush Of living manhood. Dimmed is now that eye, And cold in death, that tongue for ever hush. All proffered aid is vain, no human skill Again that pulse can move, or warm that icy chill.

Next day, the ocean burial. 'Twas then

A sad, sad hour, when in a hammock wound That corse lay on the gangway, and the men, Tearful and hush, on deck were gathered round To give their comrade sepulture; and when,

In tones scarce heard above the moaning sound Of sullen storm-winds, solemnly was read, To close the impressive scene, the "Service for the Dead."

Death have I seen on land: and there his tread
In the lone halls of an afflicted dwelling,
The soul reflective fills with solemn dread;

But here, when gloomy waves alone are swelling

A SAILOR'S FUNERAL AT SEA.

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Wide, wide around, and in the shrouds o'erhead, Low moaning winds sad requiems are telling— The world away-God only all things filling— Death wears his saddest form-an aspect dark and chilling.

Sailors' Magazine.

THE SAILOR'S FUNERAL AT SEA.

THE raging storm was calmed and stilled,
And sadness now each bosom filled,
As we assembled slow;

For every sailor mourned the lad

Whose pallid features death had clad,
And artless was our woe.

We placed him on the vessel's side,
And waveless was the dark blue tide,
About to close around him;

We heard no bell-we saw no bier,
Nor kindred friends to drop a tear,
As in the sheet we wound him,

The winds were sighing through the shrouds,
The moon was shining through the clouds,
And soft her beams were pouring;
And then we gathered round the head,
And silent gazed upon the dead,

While distant waves were roaring!

"Twas there we thought, that, far away,
His widowed mother, day by day,
Would pray for his returning;
How little sisters watched each sail,
And disappointed oft turned pale
By lamp at midnight burning!

Then slow we raised him o'er the side,
And gently downward let him glide,
And placed him on the billow;
The waters round him smoothly closed,
As on their bosom he reposed,
And made their deep his pillow!

O, sailor! lowly is thy bed-
And few the tears [of sorrow] shed,
For few will mourn for thee;
But sad we lay thee here in peace,
And thou, while corals round increase,
Shalt sleep most peacefully!

But here thou shalt not always rest,
With waters rolling o'er thy breast-

For thou again shalt rise;

And thou the voice of Heaven wilt hear,

Which wakes the just both far and near,

And calls them to the skies!

REV. J. TODD.

THE SAILOR'S GRAVE.

325

THE SAILOR'S GRAVE.

HE sleeps! But oh! he sleeps not there-hard by The hallowed building of the village fane, Where oft in youth he stood and prayed to lie, Far from the tumult of the restless main.

His eyes are closed! But no fond mother's hand,
Trembling with grief, performs that last sad rite!
Around his corse no mourning kindred stand,
Ere he be hid for ever from their sight!

He lies in death! But no maternal tear,
Big with a mother's woe, falls on his cheek;
No favourite sister, o'er his cheerless bier,

Weeps what her words are powerless to speak!

His rites are soon gone o'er! But, ah! no sigh

Breathes out the funeral toll of him that's gone! Perchance his messmate lowers his dark, dull eye, Then-hark! a sound! a splash!—and all is done!

The sullen waves close o'er him! But there's not
A stone to note the place where rests the brave_
A single bubble, bursting, marks the spot
Where rests the sailor in his sailor's grave!