The sea shall be my cemetery
Unto eternity.

How glorious 'tis to have the wave
For ever dashing o'er thee;--
Besides that dull and lonesome grave,
Where worms and earth devour thee.

My messmates, when ye drink my dirge,
Go, fill the cup from ocean's surge;
And when ye drain the beverage up,
Remember Neptune in the cup.
For he has been my _brawling host_,
Since first I roam'd from coast to coast;
And he my _brawling_ host shall be--
I love his ocean courtesy--
His _boisterous_ hospitality."



These lines, to us at least, seem to echo the rough roar of the
breakers, as they rush upon an iron-bound coast. Poor G. Gray! He now
sleeps, not in the bosom of that old Ocean he loved so dearly, but, we
think, in the kirkyard of Douglas, in the Upper Ward of Lanarkshire,--a
light early quenched,--but whose memory this notice and these lines may,
perhaps, for a season, preserve! The SEA still lies over, after all
written in prose or rhyme regarding it, as the subject for a great poem;
and it will task all the energies of even the truest poet.