He felt himself alive yet without room

To live or breathe. He groaned, then cried aloud,

 Next morn—if morn, it were—no count of hours, The dungeon-tenant kept,— A silver ray Woke hope afresh, as down a cord there crept A basket full of meats, while 'neath them lay A lamp and tools, with hints where he might try their powers. 

Next morn—if morn, it were—no count of hours,

The dungeon-tenant kept,—

A silver ray

Woke hope afresh, as down a cord there crept

A basket full of meats, while 'neath them lay

 Henceforth work's pulses guaged his night and day, As sandstone rock he bored. His ear supplied, By sound of sea, how much his axe had gored, As clearer came the welcome rush of tide. Hope made his feeble lamp effulgent as sun's ray! 

Henceforth work's pulses guaged his night and day,

As sandstone rock he bored.

His ear supplied,

By sound of sea, how much his axe had gored,

As clearer came the welcome rush of tide.

 

 

 The Rift in Hell Gate. 

 The first hole pierced, his head grew sick and faint. To pray he tried; no word Escaped his lips. Yet sure he felt his spirit's groanings heard, As prone he lay and gasped the air by sips; For that he'd breathed so long, was foul with dead men's taint. 

The first hole pierced, his head grew sick and faint.

To pray he tried; no word

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