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 agèd wrong, 
Dash them to earth and crunch them with the heel 
And make a dust of their seraphic song.