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Dying where  leagues  of  billows  sewned  1o  shriek  far  their prey,
                          And  the  nearest  laud  was  hundreds— av,  thousands-— o f  miies  away,
                          She  raved  one  nil:, hl  in  a  fever,  and  the  next  lay  still  as  death,
                          So  still  I'd  bend  to  listen  for  the  faintest  sign  o f   breath.


                          She  seemed  in  a  sleep,  and  sleeping  with  a  smile  on  her  thin,  wan


                          She  passed  away one morning, while  T  prayed to  the  throne  o f  grace,
                          T  knelt  in  the  liltlo  cabin,  and  prayer  after  prayer  I  -Said,
                          "1 ill  the  surgeon  come  and  told  me  it  was  useless— my  wife  was  dead !

                          Dead  !  I  wouldn't  believe  it,   T h ey forced  me  away  that  night.
                          For  1  raved  in  my  wild  despairing,  the  shock  sent  me  mad  outright.
                          I  rvas  shut  in  the  farthest  cabin,  and  I  beat  my  head  on  the  side,
                          A n d   all day long  m  my  madness,  “ They've  murdered  her !'*  I  cried,


                          T h ey  locked  me away  from  m y fellows,-— put  me in  cruel  chains,
                          It seems  I  had  seised  a  weapon  to  beat  out  the  surgeon's  brains.
                          I  cried  in  niv  wild,  triad  furv  that  he  was  the  devil  sent
                          T o   gloat o'er  the frenized  anguish  with  winch  my  heart,  was  rent,


                          T  spent that  night,  with  toe  irons  heavy  upon  niy  wrists.
                          A n d   my  wife  lay dead  quite  near  ms,   I  beat with  my  fettered  fists,
                          Beat  at  m y  prison  panels,  and  then— O  God !— and  then
                          I  heard  the  shrieks  o f  women  and  the  tramp  of  hurrying  men.


                          I  heard  the  cry,  11  Ship  a-fire T  caught  up  by  a  hundred  throats,
                          A n d   over  the  roar  the  captain  shouting  to  lower the  boats ;
                          Then  cry  upon cry,  and  curses,  and  the  crackle  of  burning  wood,
                          A nd  the  place  grew  hot  as  a  furnace— 1  could  feel  it where  I  stood.


                          T  beat  at  the  door and  shouted,  but  never  a  sound  came  back,
                          A n d   the  timbers  above  me  started,  till  right  through  a  yawning  crack
                          I  could  see the flames  shoot upwards,  seizing  on  mast  and  sad,
                          banned  in  their  burning  fury  by  the breaJi  o f  the  lunv’ing  gale.
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