LVIII.

On the mid-seas a knell!--for man was there, Anguish and love--the mourner with his dead! A long, low-rolling knell--a voice of prayer-- Dark glassy waters, like a desert spread-- And the pale-shining Southern Cross on high, Its faint stars fading from a solemn sky, Where mighty clouds before the dawn grew red: Were these things round me? Such o’er memory sweep Wildly, when aught brings back that burial of the deep.