There loomed a great shape lately scarce in sight
Of Scituate cliffs,—a mountain mid the mist;
Perchance an Indiaman, we said; but hist!
Heard you that gun-stroke, out by yonder light?
Then the fog thickened in the gathering night;
No further signal heard (save that dread one
Which brings back terror even as I write)
Of the mysterious wanderer; nor is known
Aught else of her—but that she comes no more.
O unknown mourners! watchers of the sea
By many a lonely fireside on the shore,
One thing is sure: He brought them to the breast
Of that calm haven where you fain would be;
And they are glad—because they are at rest.