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TOM HARDY.
99
Here is the Bible that she gave,
It was my compass o'er the wave
When prosperous skies were fair;
And now, when darksome billows roll,
It is the anchor of my soul,
That drives away despair.
Cut from my temples, when I'm dead
One of these curling locks, he said,
And bear to Mary dear,
Tell her, I lov'd her till the last,
But ah! my breath is failing fast,
The stroke of death is near.
Yet, now, my peace with God is made,
So, not of the last foe afraid,
I dare a watery grave,
For in yon skies, with pierced hand
I see the blest Redeemer stand
My parting soul to save."
Bright rose the morn, but cold as lead
Lay poor Tom Hardy, pale and dead;
