On the hard floors the wasted objects laid
There tossed and tumbled in the dismal shade:
There no soft voice their bitter fate bemoaned,
But Death strode stately, while his victims groaned.
Of leaky decks I heard them long complain,
Drowned as they were in deluges of rain:
Denied the comforts of a dying bed,
And not a pillow to support the head:
How could they else but pine, and grieve and sigh,
Detest a wretched life, and wish to die?
Scarce had I mingled with this wretched band,
When a thin victim seized me by the hand:--
"And art thou come?"--death heavy on his eyes--
"And art thou come to these abodes?" he cries,
"Why didst thou leave the Scorpion's dark retreat?
And hither haste, a surer death to meet?
Why didst thou leave thy damp, infected cell?
If that was purgatory, this is hell.
We too, grown weary of that horrid shade,
Petitioned early for the Doctor's aid;
His aid denied, more deadly symptoms came,
Weak and yet weaker, glowed the vital flame;
And when disease had worn us down so low
That few could tell if we were ghosts or no,
And all asserted death would be our fate,
Then to the Doctor we were sent, too late"
Ah! rest in peace, each injured, parted shade,
By cruel hands in death's dark weeds arrayed,
The days to come shall to your memory raise
Piles on these shores, to spread through earth your praise.
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