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