On a lone barren isle, where the wild roaring billows
  Assail the stern rock, and the loud tempests rave,
The hero lies still, while the dew-drooping willows,
  Like fond weeping mourners, lean over the grave.
The lightnings may flash, and the loud thunders rattle:
  He heeds not, he hears not, he ’s free from all pain;—
He sleeps his last sleep...