Sweet
Flower!
belike
one
day
to
have
A
place
upon
thy
Poet's
grave,
I
welcome
thee
once
more:
But
He,
who
was
on
land,
at
sea,
My
Brother,
too,
in
loving
thee,
Although
he
loved
more
silently,
Sleeps
by
his
native
shore.
Ah!
hopeful,
hopeful
was
the
day
When
to
that
Ship
he
bent
his
way,
To
govern
and
to
guide:
His
wish
was
gained:
a
little
time
Would
bring
him
back
in
manhood's
prime
And
free
for
life,
these
hills
to
climb;
With
all
his
wants
supplied.
And
full
of
hope
day
followed
day
While
that
stout
Ship
at
anchor
lay
Beside
the
shores
of
Wight;
The
May
had
then
made
all
things
green;
And,
floating
there,
in
pomp
serene,
That
Ship
was
goodly
to
be
seen,
His
pride
and
his
delight!
Yet
then,
when
called
ashore,
he
sought
The
tender
peace
of
rural
thought:
In
more
than
happy
mood
To
your
abodes,
bright
daisy
Flowers!
He
then
would
steal
at
leisure
hours,
And
loved
you
glittering
in
your
bowers
A
starry
multitude.
But
hark
the
word!--the
ship
is
gone;--
Returns
from
her
long
course:--anon
Sets
sail:--in
season
due,
Once
more
on
English
earth
they
stand:
But,
when
a
third
time
from
the
land
They
parted,
sorrow
was
at
hand
For
Him
and
for
his
crew.
Ill-fated
Vessel!--ghastly
shock!
--At
length
delivered
from
the
rock,
The
deep
she
hath
regained;
And
through
the
stormy
night
they
steer;
Labouring
for
life,
in
hope
and
fear,
To
reach
a
safer
shore--how
near,
Yet
not
to
be
attained!
"Silence!"
the
brave
Commander
cried:
To
that
calm
word
a
shriek
replied,
It
was
the
last
death-shriek.
--A
few
(my
soul
oft
sees
that
sight)
Survive
upon
the
tall
mast's
height;
But
one
dear
remnant
of
the
night--
For
Him
in
vain
I
seek.
Six
weeks
beneath
the
moving
sea
He
lay
in
slumber
quietly;
Unforced
by
wind
or
wave
To
quit
the
Ship
for
which
he
died,
(All
claims
of
duty
satisfied;)
And
there
they
found
him
at
her
side;
And
bore
him
to
the
grave.
Vain
service!
yet
not
vainly
done
For
this,
if
other
end
were
none,
That
He,
who
had
been
cast
Upon
a
way
of
life
unmeet
For
such
a
gentle
Soul
and
sweet,
Should
find
an
undisturbed
retreat
Near
what
he
loved,
at
last--
That
neighbourhood
of
grove
and
field
To
Him
a
resting-place
should
yield,
A
meek
man
and
a
brave!
The
birds
shall
sing
and
ocean
make
A
mournful
murmur
for
'his'
sake;
And
Thou,
sweet
Flower,
shalt
sleep
and
wake
Upon
his
senseless
grave.
