"His corse may boast it's urn and narrow cave,
"And they who loath'd his life may gild his grave:
"Ours are the tears, though few, sincerely shed,
"When Ocean shrouds and sepulchres our dead.
"For us, even banquets fond regret supply
"In the red cup that crowns our memory;
"And the brief epitaph in danger's day,
"When those who win at length divide the prey, 40
"And cry, Remembrance saddening o'er each brow,
"How had the brave who fell exulted now!"
Such were the notes that from the Pirate's isle,
Around the kindling watch-fire rang the while;
Such were the sounds that thrill'd the rocks along,
And unto ears as rugged seem'd a song!
In scattered groups upon the golden sand,
They game—carouse—converse—or whet the brand;
Select the arms—to each his blade assign,
And careless eye the blood that dims its shine: 50
Repair the boat—replace the helm or oar,
While others straggling muse along the shore;