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Updated: June 22, 2025
Next day did many widows come Their husbands to bewail; They wash'd their wounds in brinish tears, But all would not prevail. Their bodies bathed in purple blood, They bore with them away; They kiss'd them dead a thousand times, When they were clad in clay.
God's will be done!" exclaimed he aloud, as he sat down on the beach, and covered his face with his hands. "For now I stand as one upon a rock, Environed with a wilderness of sea, Who marks the waxing tide grow wave by wave, Expecting ever when some envious surge Will in his brinish bowels swallow him." The tide was on the ebb when Newton was left in this desolate situation.
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