FIVE-AND-TWENTY years have gone br Since old William pollexfen br Laid his strong bones down in death br By his wife Elizabeth br In the grey stone tomb he made. br And after twenty years they laid br In that tomb by him and her br His son George, the astrologer; br And Masons drove from miles away br To scatter the Acacia spray br Upon a melancholy man br Who had ended where his breath began. br Many a son and daughter lies br Far from the customary skies, br The Mall and Eades's grammar school, br In London or in Liverpool; br But where is laid the sailor John br That so many lands had known, br Quiet lands or unquiet seas br Where the Indians trade or Japanese? br He never found his rest ashore, br Moping for one voyage more. br Where have they laid the sailor John? br And yesterday the youngest son, br A humorous, unambitious man, br Was buried near the astrologer, br Yesterday in the tenth year br Since he who had been contented long. br A nobody in a great throng, br Decided he would journey home, br Now that his fiftieth year had come, br And 'Mr. Alfred' be again br Upon the lips of common men br Who carried in their memory br His childhood and his family. br At all these death-beds women heard br A visionary white sea-bird br Lamenting that a man should die; br And with that cry I have raised my cry.