Classic Poem

Down the deep sea, full fourscore fathoms down,
An iron vault hath clutched five hundred men!
They died not, like the nations, one by one:
A thrill! a bounding pulse! a shout! and then
Five hundred hearts stood still, at once, nor beat again!

That night the Angel of the Lord beheld
A vast battalion of the gliding dead:
Souls that came up where seething surges quelled
Their stately ship — their throne — and now the bed
Where they shall wait, in shrouded sleep, the Morn of Dread!

Fast slept the sailor-boy! A silent dream
Soften'd his brow with smiles — his mother's face
Droops over him — and her soft kisses seem
Warm on his cheek: what severs that embrace?
Death! strangling death! — alive — a conscious burial-place!

And he, the kingly mind, whose skill had planned
That lordly bastion of the world of wave?
But yesterday he stood, in proud command,
And now a thing of nought, where ocean raves
Above his shuddering sepulchre in the weedy caves!

The monsters of the sea will glide and glare:
Baffled Leviathan shall roar in vain:
The Sea Kings of the Isles are castled there:
They man that silent fortress of the main:
Yea! in the realms of death their dust shall rule and reign!

Lord Yahvah of the Waters! Thou wert there!
Thy presence shone throughout that dark abode:
Thy mighty touch assuaged the last despair:
Their pulses paused in the calm midst of God:
Their souls, amid surrounding Angels, went abroad!