Classic Poem

Beneath this tree, below these stones
We bury one who died at sea:
For fear the Sharks would gnaw his bones,
Our captain lashed the helm a lee,
And luffing up, Tortuga near,
He thought it right to anchor here.

In early youth, this seaman bold,
With Captain Cooke , faced many a gale:
On frozen seas endured all cold,
Where Boreas rends the stiffening sail;
Then ranging, south, a smoother sea,
Why did they name it O-why-hee!

Thou, stranger, who shalt pass this way,
Respect these stones that mark this grave:
Some tribute to his memory pay
Who, now, no longer stems the wave,
But sleeps, where dreams recall no more
His absent friends, or native shore.

To traverse our terraqueous globe,
Was the first effort of his mind;
In weather foul, in weather fair,
He stood to every chance resigned: —
A sea philosopher they say,
He never cursed one stormy day.

Like Grecians old, in Homer's days,
Above his grave we plant an our ,
Whose painted blade from high displays,
This sailor's name — James B ARRYMORE ,
A sailor, to old Neptune dear,
Complete in all — hand, reef, and steer.

And if these simple lines can live,
As some have lived that live no more,
They may the serious tidings give,
That on this distant sun burnt shore,
Rests one, who, manly, brave and free,
Finds home beneath a Tamarind tree.

Such honor is to James assign'd —
This humble grave let all revere,
Such as some Commodores may find
When time has ended their career.