Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/271

270 What chisel's art hath wrought Those coral monuments, and tombs of pearl, Where sleeps the sea-boy 'mid a pomp that earth Ne'er showed her buried kings? Whose science stretched The simplest line to curb thy monstrous tide, And graving "Hitherto" upon the sand, Bade thy mad surge respect it? From whose loom Come forth thy drapery, that ne'er waxeth old, Nor blancheth 'neath stern Winter's direst frost? Who hath thy keys, thou deep? Who taketh note Of all thy wealth? Who numbereth the host That find their rest with thee? What eye doth scan Thy secret annal, from creation locked Close in those dark, unfathomable cells— Which he who visiteth, hath ne'er returned Among the living? Still but one reply? Do all thine echoing depths and crested waves Make the same answer?— of that One Dread Name— Which he, who deepest plants within his heart, Is wisest, though the world may call him fool. Therefore, I come a listener to thy lore And bow me at thy side, and lave my brow In thy cool billow, if, perchance, my soul, That fleeting wanderer on the shore of time, May, by thy voice instructed, learn of God.