The Writings of Bret Harte :: :: University of Virginia Library

A deep bell is knolling
Over the sea,
Rolling and tolling
Over the sea;
Lazily swinging,
Steadily bringing
Tidings of terror,
Danger is bringing,
All the while solemnly,
Mournfully singing:

“Fogs on the sand-bank,”
Fogs on the deep,

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Fogs round the gallant ship
Stealthily creep;
Fogs on the forecastle,
Quarter and waist,
Fog in the binnacle,
Fog in each place;

Fog in the country,
Fog on the moor,
On the green upland,
On the white shore;
Fog in the marshes,
Fog in the brake,
Upon the river,
Over the lake.

Fog in the city,
In the broad street—
There want and luxury
Heedlessly meet;
Fog in the narrow lane,
In the dark way—
There shines the light of truth
Never a ray.

Fog in the haunts of crime—
Vice and despair;
Fog in the Justice seat
Denser than there;
Fog in the capitol,
Where in the hall
Grave legislators meet—
Fogs over all.

Fog in the miser's heart,
Dark'ning and drear;

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Fog that, in pity's eye,
Melts to a tear;
Things that delusively
In the fogs loom,
Men still unceasingly
Grope for in gloom.

Fog in the country,
Fog on the deep,
Fogs in the city
Stealthily creep;
Darkness around us,
Darker, in sooth,
Were there no heavenly
Sunlight and truth.