In foreign climes, far from his native home,
The youthful sailor finds an early tomb.
Jackson, with spirits buoyant as the breeze,
That curls the white waves on the swelling seas,
Sleeps cold in death, where Mara Bona spreads
Perennial flowers and ever verdant meads ;
Where citron groves their fruit-bent branches wave,
And orange trees blossom o'er his hallow'd grave.
Dear friends, who, weeping his lov'd memory mourn,
And heave the deep sigh o'er his pictur'd urn,
What counsel can the honest muse impart,
To sooth the anguish of each grief-torn heart?
The youth departed, sleeps in peace, secure
From grief and pain surviving friends endure.
The cares of life can now no more enthrall, —
The spirit freed now soars beyond them all.
Boreas, with blust'ring storms, disturbs no more,
Nor Neptune's trident, shaking every shore.