AS I sit with others, at a great feast, suddenly, while the music is playing, To my mind, (whence it comes I know not,) spectral, in mist, of a wreck at sea; Of certain shipsâ€”how they sail from port with flying streamers, and wafted kissesâ€”and that is the last of them! Of the solemn and murky mystery about the fate of the President; Of the flower of the marine science of fifty generations, founderâ€™d off the Northeast coast, and going downâ€”Of the steamship Arctic going down, Of the veilâ€™d tableauâ€”Women gatherâ€™d together on deck, pale, heroic, waiting the moment that draws so closeâ€”O the moment! A huge sobâ€”A few bubblesâ€”the white foam spirting upâ€”And then the women gone, Sinking there, while the passionless wet flows onâ€”And I now pondering, Are those women indeed gone? Are Souls drownâ€™d and destroyâ€™d so? Is only matter triumphant?