 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
279
ATLANTIC MERCIES.
And, meekly think how many better menHave gone this way in famine and in fear,
Yet, after all their toils, had labour'd then
Vainly,—for Death hath feasted on them here!
O think how, gulph'd away from human ken,
Thousands have struggled in yon yeasty waves,
As gloomily around some staggering wreck
Yawn'd the black throats of those Atlantic graves:
We the while, pacing this high-terraced deck,
Like proud triumphant despots of the deep,
Set our calm feet on Ocean's vassal neck;
And day or night, in pastimes, or in sleep,
With ease and skill and mammoth-muscled force
Speed to the goal of our victorious course!
| Three Hundred Sonnets | |