Classic Poem

Entombed alive! A struggling streak of light
Made visible the gloom,--
His living shroud.
He felt himself alive yet without room
To live or breathe. He groaned, then cried aloud,
"O God, while in this porch of hell, be Thou my light!"

Next morn--if morn, it were--no count of hours,
The dungeon-tenant kept,--
A silver ray
Woke hope afresh, as down a cord there crept
A basket full of meats, while 'neath them lay
A lamp and tools, with hints where he might try their powers.

Henceforth work's pulses guaged his night and day,
As sandstone rock he bored.
His ear supplied,
By sound of sea, how much his axe had gored,
As clearer came the welcome rush of tide.
Hope made his feeble lamp effulgent as sun's ray!