The fierce sun smote him and went glorying down,
And ere the gloaming died his spirit fled;
The southern night burst into stars o'erhead,
Nor ruffled any wavelet to a frown;
Till morning from beneath her golden crown
Smiled on the half-mast ensign fluttering d**h
To beating pulses and to bated breath,
As if her smile could smile men's sorrow down.
Slow tolls the bell, the slow procession creeps;
Kind women's eyes are wet, hard men's are grave,
A voice commits our brother to the deeps,
A plash divides the hollow gulfing wave;
Still plies the van, still on the vessel speeds;
Nor ship, nor sea, nor sun, our sorrow heeds.