Henry J. Finn (1787–1840)

DEEP mists hung over the Mariner’s grave

When the holy funeral rite was read;

And every breath on the dark blue wave

Seem’d hush’d, to hallow the friendless dead.

And heavily heaved on the gloomy sea,

The ship that shelter’d that homeless one—

As though, his funeral-hour should be,

When the waves were still, and the winds were gone.

And there he lay, in his coarse, cold shroud—

And strangers were round the coffinless:

Not a kinsman was seen among that crowd,

Not an eye to weep, nor a lip to bless.

No sound from the church’s passing-bell

Was echoed along the pathless deep,

The hearts that were far away, to tell

Where the Mariner lies, in his lasting sleep.

Not a whisper then linger’d upon the air—

O’er his body, one moment, his messmates bent;

But the plunging sound of the dead was there—

And the ocean is now his monument!

But many a sigh, and many a tear,

Shall be breathed, and shed, in the hours to come—

When the widow and fatherless shall hear

How he died, far, far from his happy home!