The Funeral, VI

When, lo! a vessel near, they spy, That proudly heaves in sight; Fair blows the wind, serene the sky, “Ho! boatmen, o’er the waters fly, “And reach the land ere night;— “To favouring breeze your canvass stretch, “To Holy Island speed; “And bid the Bishop cease to preach, “And leave his miracles unwrought, “And bring him here as swift as thought, “To aid us in our need!”