Down, countless fathoms down, he sinks to sleep,
With all the nameless shapes that haunt the deep.
Rest, Loved One, rest-beneath the billow's swell,
Where tongue ne'er spoke, where sunlight never fell;
Rest-till the God who gave thee to the deep,
Rouse thee, triumphant, from the long, long sleep.
And You, whose hearts are bleeding, who deplore
That ye must see the Wanderer's face no more,
Weep-he was worthy of the purest grief;
Weep — in such sorrow ye shall find relief;
While o'er his doom the bitter tear ye shed,
Memory shall trace the virtues of the dead;
These cannot die — for you, for him they bloom,
And scatter fragrance round his ocean-tomb.
“Of all the burying places for the dead,” says the writer just quoted,
there is no one to be compared to the sea. Such multitudes are gathered together there, that in the apostle's vision of the resurrection, one of its scenes could not fail to be this: “And the sea gave up the dead which were in it.”
The sea is the burying-place of the old world; to them have been added thousands from the new, out of every clime and generation.
The loss of a friend at sea, occasions peculiar affliction, not only because of the separation from the sympathy and care of friends in the trying hour, but because the imagination is left to picture distressing events attending the death and burial;the slowly sinking form; the ship that had paused to leave it in the deep, sailing on; the under-currents taking it into their restless courses, till perhaps it is brought to the shores of its own home, or cast upon