FUNEREAL SKETCHES. 221 



NO. X. 

 THE OCEAN DEPTHS. 



Would ye read the deep blue sea ? 

 Tis the nation's cemetry. 

 Here the turbulent and vain 

 Rest beneath the heaving main : 

 Here the weary are at rest, 

 Softer than old Ocean's breast, 

 When the winds have wrought their will 

 And a Voice hath called " Be still ! " 

 Here the high, in home and fame, 

 Sink to find a deathless name ; 

 Here the frail one hides her shame. 

 Where, but now, the martyr slave 

 Plunged to freedom — and his grave ! 



These, beneath the rolling sea, 

 Have their unhewn cemetry : 

 Many a child, whose mother's care 

 Doated on her infant heir. 

 Called away to early sleep 

 In the unfathomable deep. 

 Many a youth, whom penury hurled 

 Forth an outcast on the world. 

 Here hath floated but a day 

 Like a bubble on the spray : 

 His a feverish heart and burst 

 Ere the world had done its worst. 

 Here the convict, from his chain, 

 Drops into the yawning main. 



These, beneath the untrodden sea. 



Have their common cemetry : 



Here — unmarked — the wild, the brave, 



Hopeless love, indignant slave, 



Serf-born youth, patrician lad. 



Both the guileless and the bad ; 



All whom slow disease hath ta'en, 



All the battle fire hath slain 



Each one swallowed by the sea — 



Rest they here, the bond, the free, 



Till a Voice shall burst their graves 



Like the sound of many waves. eos. 



