The dying eyes see thro' the sleet
The lights of the stranger's home.
. . . Stark and white in the dull dawn
They lie upon the shore,
Who, thro' the storm or thro' the sun,
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Shall see their homes no more -
No more the sunny bay they lov'd,
That basks at Naples' feet:
Bitter the death-ways are to tread,
Tho' death itself be sweet!
. . . At evening in the village church
Men walkt with tender tread,
And the voice of the preacher trembled, when
He pray'd for the unknown dead.
And over the icy ocean,
Hundreds of miles away,
There were voices that brake in sobs that night
When they knelt - and tried to pray!