The Downing legends : Stories in Rhyme The witch of Shiloh, the last of the Wampanoags, the gentle earl, the enchanted voyage |
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 | The Downing legends : Stories in Rhyme |  |
XXIX
“No frothing jowl of wolfish main
But we have fronted it in vain.
No shouting surge, no snarling bar,
Will fling the gates of death ajar.
No bloody haunt of pagan men,
No pirate's lair, no monster's den,
Will suffer us to draw anigh,
And hail its cruelty, and die.
No land we meet—no land—no land!
No, not the humblest beach of sand.
No matter how we span its girth,
We cannot find the winsome earth,
Nor aught but ocean's heaving graves,
An endless charnelhouse of waves.
Oh, what a hell the deep may be!
There is no horror like the sea.
But we have fronted it in vain.
No shouting surge, no snarling bar,
Will fling the gates of death ajar.
No bloody haunt of pagan men,
No pirate's lair, no monster's den,
Will suffer us to draw anigh,
And hail its cruelty, and die.
No land we meet—no land—no land!
No, not the humblest beach of sand.
No matter how we span its girth,
We cannot find the winsome earth,
Nor aught but ocean's heaving graves,
An endless charnelhouse of waves.
Oh, what a hell the deep may be!
There is no horror like the sea.
Time also vanished, like the shore;
Omniscient Time knew us no more.
We wrote in books the dreary days
Till record stopped in stark amaze.
How might we credit such a thing!
The months advanced on tireless wing;
The years, the lustres, filled their lot;
We reckoned them, believing not.
We numbered, numbered, numbered oft,
Nor yet believed, but rather scoffed;
Denying that our woful breath
Was overdue to cheated death;
Denying that the friends we sought,
The foes we dreaded, all were nought.
Omniscient Time knew us no more.
We wrote in books the dreary days
190
How might we credit such a thing!
The months advanced on tireless wing;
The years, the lustres, filled their lot;
We reckoned them, believing not.
We numbered, numbered, numbered oft,
Nor yet believed, but rather scoffed;
Denying that our woful breath
Was overdue to cheated death;
Denying that the friends we sought,
The foes we dreaded, all were nought.
| The Downing legends : Stories in Rhyme | |