Three misty suns in beamless grief arose, And glimmer'd, _Russel_, on thy mortal woes! The fourth beheld th' eternal angel nigh, As Friendship, speechless, watch'd thy fading eye. While throbs convulsive thy strain'd vitals wrung, One only murmur trembl'd on thy tongue, One sov'reign accent rack'd thy parting frame— The reading sounds that form'd _Maria_'s name! Th' expiring spark still glimmer'd in his eye As her lov'd name throb'd the deadly sigh! But the strong foe, with adamantine hand Drew round his faultering voice a triple band. Speechless—and pale—life faintly beat his breast, 'Till the sad sun beheld the purple west; Still on his pallid face—soft kindness strove, His lingering looks on Friendship dwelt and Love, And as his last pulse beat with quivering chill, His trembling eye-balls—_look'd Maria still_! Nor does the flaming sword of vengeance sheath, Tho' the last pang be paid to victor Death. O'er the fall'n reliques new dishonours brood; Unholy fury rends the sacred shroud; If to the sea consign'd—the hallow'd corse The briny monsters seize with savage force. If to the fresh'ning flood the lifeless clay, Rank alligators seize the quiv'ring prey. Or when, more-favour'd, on the burning land The kindred dust is mix'd with solemn hand, Fierce from his nightly watch and native wood, Lur'd by the distant scent of morbid blood, The tiger rushes by foul carnage led, From the fresh tomb tears up the reeking dead, Devours the mangled limbs—churns the chill gore, The last avenger of th' insulted shore! Like the wild screaming of the midnight blast, 'Midst the torn cordage of the shatter'd mast, With notes that pierce th' unwholsome welkin through, The shrill-blown pipe convenes the drooping crew. The wretched crew their o'ercharg'd bosoms smite, And rise to join the melancholy rite. With painful steps the burning deck they crowd, Or pensive hang upon the slacken'd shroud; Speechless they mark the foul presageful wave, That, _Russell_—parting, opes thy fluid grave! The jutting hatch, a sable bier, is laid, The pitchy pall throws a funereal shade, His honour'd corse in awful form dispos'd, Decent his clay-cold limbs—his eyelids clos'd; The long-lov'd ringlet once _Maria_ grac'd, Upon his breast by holy Friendship plac'd; The sinking iron slung with duteous pains, In shrouded canvass wrapt his cold remains— A rev'rent silence the sad prospect draws; The sacred liturgy, with solemn pause, Swells the sad sound, at whose _inverted_ doom, Plung'd in th' abyss, he finds the liquid tomb!