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Literary
March 1, 1832
Herald Of The Times
Newport, Newport County, Rhode Island
What is this article about?
A narrative poem by Mrs. Sigourney depicting the solemn funeral at sea for a young sailor, where the crew mourns his life, family, and lost love, consoled by the chaplain's words of resurrection before committing his body to the ocean.
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POETRY.
THE SAILOR'S FUNERAL.
BY MRS. SIGOURNEY.
The ship's bell toll'd! and slowly o'er the deck
Come forth the summon'd crew. Bold, hardy men
Far from their native skies, stood silent there
With melancholy brow. From a low cloud
That o'er the horizon hover'd, came the threat
Of distant mutter'd thunder. Broken waves
Heaved up their sharp white helmets o'er the expanse
Of ocean, which in brooding stillness lay
Like some vindictive king, who meditates
On hoarded wrongs, or wakes the wrathful war.
The ship's bell toll'd! and lo! a youthful form
Which oft had boldly dared the slippery shrouds
At midnight's watch, was as a burden laid
Down at his comrade's feet. Mournful they gaz'd
Upon his sunken cheek, and some there were,
Who in that bitter hour remembered well
The parting blessing of his hoary sire,
And the big tears that o'er his mother's cheek
Went coursing down, when his beloved voice
Breathed its farewell. But one who nearest stood
To that pale, shrouded corse, remembered more;
Of a white cottage with its shaven lawn,
And blossom'd hedge, and of a fair-hair'd girl
Who, at her lattice veil'd with woodbine, watch'd
His last, far step, and then turned back to weep
And close that comrade in his faithful breast
Hid a bright chestnut lock, which the dead youth
Had sever'd with a cold and trembling hand
In life's extremity, and bade him bear,
With broken words of love's last eloquence,
To his blest Mary. Now that chosen friend
Bow'd low his sun-bronzed face, and like a child.
Sobb'd in deep sorrow,
But there came a tone,
Clear as the breaking moon o'er stormy seas,
"I am the resurrection." Every heart
Suppress'd its grief, and every eye was raised.
There stood the chaplain-his uncovered brow
Unmark'd by earthly passion, while his voice,
Rich as the balm from plants of Paradise.
Pour'd the Eternal's message o'er the souls
Of dying men. It was a holy hour!
There lay the wreck of youthful beauty-here
Bent mourning manhood, while supporting faith
Cast her strong anchor 'neath the troubled wave.
There was a plunge!—'The riven sea complain'd
Death from his briny bosom took her own.
The awful fountains of the deep lift up
Their subterranean portals, and he went
Down to the floor of Ocean, 'mid the beds
Of brave and beautiful ones. Yet to my soul
In all the funeral pomp, the guise of wo,
The monumental grandeur, with which earth
Indulgenth her dead sons, was naught so sad,
Sublime, or sorrowful, as the mute sea
Opening her mouth to whelm that sailor youth.
THE SAILOR'S FUNERAL.
BY MRS. SIGOURNEY.
The ship's bell toll'd! and slowly o'er the deck
Come forth the summon'd crew. Bold, hardy men
Far from their native skies, stood silent there
With melancholy brow. From a low cloud
That o'er the horizon hover'd, came the threat
Of distant mutter'd thunder. Broken waves
Heaved up their sharp white helmets o'er the expanse
Of ocean, which in brooding stillness lay
Like some vindictive king, who meditates
On hoarded wrongs, or wakes the wrathful war.
The ship's bell toll'd! and lo! a youthful form
Which oft had boldly dared the slippery shrouds
At midnight's watch, was as a burden laid
Down at his comrade's feet. Mournful they gaz'd
Upon his sunken cheek, and some there were,
Who in that bitter hour remembered well
The parting blessing of his hoary sire,
And the big tears that o'er his mother's cheek
Went coursing down, when his beloved voice
Breathed its farewell. But one who nearest stood
To that pale, shrouded corse, remembered more;
Of a white cottage with its shaven lawn,
And blossom'd hedge, and of a fair-hair'd girl
Who, at her lattice veil'd with woodbine, watch'd
His last, far step, and then turned back to weep
And close that comrade in his faithful breast
Hid a bright chestnut lock, which the dead youth
Had sever'd with a cold and trembling hand
In life's extremity, and bade him bear,
With broken words of love's last eloquence,
To his blest Mary. Now that chosen friend
Bow'd low his sun-bronzed face, and like a child.
Sobb'd in deep sorrow,
But there came a tone,
Clear as the breaking moon o'er stormy seas,
"I am the resurrection." Every heart
Suppress'd its grief, and every eye was raised.
There stood the chaplain-his uncovered brow
Unmark'd by earthly passion, while his voice,
Rich as the balm from plants of Paradise.
Pour'd the Eternal's message o'er the souls
Of dying men. It was a holy hour!
There lay the wreck of youthful beauty-here
Bent mourning manhood, while supporting faith
Cast her strong anchor 'neath the troubled wave.
There was a plunge!—'The riven sea complain'd
Death from his briny bosom took her own.
The awful fountains of the deep lift up
Their subterranean portals, and he went
Down to the floor of Ocean, 'mid the beds
Of brave and beautiful ones. Yet to my soul
In all the funeral pomp, the guise of wo,
The monumental grandeur, with which earth
Indulgenth her dead sons, was naught so sad,
Sublime, or sorrowful, as the mute sea
Opening her mouth to whelm that sailor youth.
What sub-type of article is it?
Poem
Elegy
What themes does it cover?
Death Mortality
Religious
Friendship
What keywords are associated?
Sailor Funeral
Sea Burial
Crew Mourning
Resurrection Sermon
Family Memories
Lost Love
What entities or persons were involved?
By Mrs. Sigourney.
Literary Details
Title
The Sailor's Funeral.
Author
By Mrs. Sigourney.
Key Lines
The Ship's Bell Toll'd! And Slowly O'er The Deck
Come Forth The Summon'd Crew. Bold, Hardy Men
Far From Their Native Skies, Stood Silent There
With Melancholy Brow.
"I Am The Resurrection." Every Heart
Suppress'd Its Grief, And Every Eye Was Raised.
There Stood The Chaplain His Uncovered Brow
Unmark'd By Earthly Passion, While His Voice,
Rich As The Balm From Plants Of Paradise.
There Was A Plunge!—'The Riven Sea Complain'd
Death From His Briny Bosom Took Her Own.
The Awful Fountains Of The Deep Lift Up
Their Subterranean Portals, And He Went
Down To The Floor Of Ocean, 'Mid The Beds
Of Brave And Beautiful Ones.
Yet To My Soul
In All The Funeral Pomp, The Guise Of Wo,
The Monumental Grandeur, With Which Earth
Indulgenth Her Dead Sons, Was Naught So Sad,
Sublime, Or Sorrowful, As The Mute Sea
Opening Her Mouth To Whelm That Sailor Youth.