Caught in the grasp of the tempest, lashed by the fiends of the storm,
Torn into shreds are her sails, tumbled her masts to the main;
Rudderless, rolling she drives and groans in the grasp of the sea;
Harbor or hope there is none; she goes to her grave in the brine:
Dead in the fathomless slime lie the bones of the ship and her crew.
Such was the promise of life; so is the promise fulfilled.
Down into the darkness at last, Daniel,--down into the darkness at last;
Laid in the lap of our Mother, Daniel,--sleeping the dreamless sleep,--
Sleeping the sleep of the babe unborn--the pure and the perfect rest:
Aye, and is it not better than this fitful fever and pain?
Aye, and is it not better, if only the dead soul knew?
Over your grave the tempest may roar or the zephyr sigh;
Over your grave the blue-bells may blink or the snow-drifts whirl,--
Dead Ashes, what do you care?--they break not the sleep of the dead.
They that were friends may mourn, they that were friends may praise;
They that knew you and yet--knew you never--may cavil and blame;
They that were foes in disguise may strike at you down in the grave;
Slander, the scavenger-buzzard--may vomit her lies on you there;
Dead Ashes, what do you care?--they break not the sleep of the dead.
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