The Sailor’s Grave.

Dark flew the scud along the wave, The booming thunders rolled on high; “All hands aloft, the storm to brave”— At midnight—was the boatswain’s cry. On deck sprung every soul apace, But one—bereft of human joy— Within a hammock’s narrow space Lay stretched a “sad, sick sailor boy.” Once, when the boatswain’s pipe would hail, The first was he of all the crew On deck to spring—to trim the sail— To steer—to reef—to furl—to clew. Now “fever dire” had seized a form Which nature cast in happiest mould; The bell struck midnight through the storm, The last—the death-knell tale is told. “Alas!” he cried—and dropped a tear, “Before my spirit mounts the skies— Are there no friends or messmates near To close, with looks of love, my eyes?” All hands aloft—loud blows the wind, Surrounding billows loudly roar; He gave one sigh, and sank resigned To hope, and think, and love no more. The morning sun in glory rose, The gale was hushed, and still’d the wave; The sea boy found his last repose, And in the ocean’s breast a grave.