One writes, that 'Other friends remain,'
⁠That 'Loss is common to the race'?
⁠And common is the commonplace,
And vacant chaff well meant for grain.

That loss is common would not make
⁠My own less bitter, rather more:
⁠Too common! Never morning wore
To evening, but some heart did break.

O father, wheresoe'er thou be,
⁠Who pledgest now thy gallant son;
⁠A shot, ere half thy draught be done,
Hath still'd the life that beat from thee.

O mother, praying God will save
⁠Thy sailor,—while thy head is bow'd,
⁠His heavy-shotted hammock-shroud
Drops in his vast and wandering grave.