Chapter 7 No.7

Under the weltering rapids a boat from the bridge is drowned, Over the

rocks the lines of another are tangled and wound, And the long, fateful

hours of the morning have wasted soon, As it had been in some blessed

trance, and now it is noon. Hurry, now with the raft! But O, build it

strong and stanch, And to the lines and the treacherous rocks look well

as you launch Over the foamy tops of the waves, and their foam-sprent

sides, Over the hidden reefs, and through the embattled tides, Onward

rushes the raft, with many a lurch and leap,-Lord! if it strike him

loose from the hold he scarce can keep! No! through all peril unharmed,

it reaches him harmless at least, And to its proven strength he lashes

his weakness fast. Now, for the shore! But steady, steady, my men, and

slow; Taut, now, the quivering lines; now slack; and so, let her go!

Thronging the shores around stands the pitying multitude; Wan as his

own are their looks, and a nightmare seems to brood Heavy upon them,

and heavy the silence hangs on all, Save for the rapids' plunge, and the

thunder of the fall. But on a sudden thrills from the people still

and pale, Chorussing his unheard despair, a desperate wail Caught on a

lurking point of rock it sways and swings, Sport of the pitiless waters,

the raft to which he clings.