The shore hath blent with the distant skies,

O'er the bend of the crested seas,

And the leaning ship in her pathway flies,

On the sweep of the freshened breeze.

Swift be its flight! for a dying guest

It bears across the billow,

And she fondly sighs in her native West

To find a peaceful pillow.

There, o'er the tide, her kindred sleep,

And she would sleep beside them—

It may not be! for the sea is deep,

And the waves—the waves divide them!

It may not be! for the flush is flown,

That lighted her lily cheek—

'Twas the passing beam, ere the sun goes down.—

Life's last and loveliest streak.

'Tis gone, and a dew is o'er her now—

The dew of the mornless eve—

No morrow will shine on that pallid brow,

For the spirit hath ta'en its leave.

The ship heaves to, and the funeral rite,

O'er the lovely form is said,

And the rough man's cheek with tears is bright,

As he lowers the gentle dead.

The corse sinks down, alone—alone,

To its dark and dreary grave,

And the soul on a lightened wing hath flown,

To the world beyond the wave.

'Tis a fearful thing in the sea to sleep

Alone in a silent bed—

'Tis a fearful thing on the shoreless deep

Of the spirit-world to tread!