How few, of all the hearts that loved, br Are grieving for thee now; br And why should mine to-night be moved br With such a sense of woe? br br Too often thus, when left alone, br Where none my thoughts can see, br Comes back a word, a passing tone br From thy strange history. br br Sometimes I seem to see thee rise, br A glorious child again; br All virtues beaming from thine eyes br That ever honoured men: br br Courage and truth, a generous breast br Where sinless sunshine lay: br A being whose very presence blest br Like gladsome summer-day. br br O, fairly spread thy early sail, br And fresh, and pure, and free, br Was the first impulse of the gale br Which urged life's wave for thee! br br Why did the pilot, too confiding, br Dream o'er that ocean's foam, br And trust in Pleasure's careless guiding br To bring his vessel home? br br For well he knew what dangers frowned, br What mists would gather, dim; br What rocks and shelves, and sands lay round br Between his port and him. br br The very brightness of the sun br The splendour of the main, br The wind which bore him wildly on br Should not have warned in vain. br br An anxious gazer from the shore— br I marked the whitening wave, br And wept above thy fate the more br Because—I could not save.