These are my murmur-laden shells that keep A fresh voice tho' the years be very gray. The wave that washed their lips and tuned their lay Is gone, gone with the faded ocean sweep, The royal tide, gray ebb and sunken neap And purple midday,--gone! To this hot clay Must sing my shells, where yet the primal day, Its roar and rhythm and splendour will not sleep. What hand shall join them to their proper sea If all be gone? Shall they forever feel Glories undone and world that cannot be?-- 'Twere mercy to stamp out this aged wrong, Dash them to earth and crunch them with the heel And make a dust of their seraphic song.