Classic Poem

Somebody must probe that hidden vein —
Somebody must clear that under-ground way
For the choked-up stream — and so the twain
Whose story I tell, went down that day.

Were they heroes? Only two working men,
With mud-stained clothes, and rough-shod feet;
But somebody loved them — life was, then,
Something to cling to, dear and sweet.

Overhead the beautiful sunshine lay,
Yet they toiled in darkness, save the beam
Of one dim lantern, that showed the way,
And flashed on the walls its ghostly gleam.

Far from the entrance an awful sound
Arose behind them — the horrible roar
Of the pent-up waters, just unbound,
Surging, swelling, like tides on the shore.

Quick, to the entrance! the stream sweeps on!
Fear lends them wings — a misstep, a fall;
Then pitchy darkness — the light is gone!
They must feel the way by the slimy wall.

With cold, numb hands, and careful feet.
They have threaded the passage and stand below
The vaulted entrance; here horrors meet —
The ladder is gone in the surge and flow!

Up to the armpits the water lies,
And now to the neck; the lips, the brow
Well go under next, as the black tides rise;
Can anything, anything save them now?

Something comes floating. A shout, a cry,
" The ladder! Here, comrade, make steady feet;
I hold it — you mount, and then will I — "
" Thank God! was ever daylight so sweet? "