AS I sit with others, at a great feast, suddenly, while the music is playing,
[ begin page 263 ]ppp.00473.263.jpg To my mind, (whence it comes I know not,) spectral, in mist, of a wreck at sea,Of the flower of the marine science of fifty generations, founder'd off the Northeast coast, and going down—Of the steamship Arctic going down,Of the veil'd tableau—Women gather'd together on deck, pale, heroic, waiting the moment that draws so close—O the moment!O the huge sob—A few bubbles—the white foam spirting up—And then the women gone,Sinking there, while the passionless wet flows on— And I now pondering, Are those women indeed gone?Are Souls drown'd and destroy'd so?Is only matter triumphant?