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.

His strength now grew with every stroke he plied. At sound of sea and men, Death's clammy sweat Was changed for drops that told of health again, While through his languid frame life's current swept, It only made him feel how nearly he had died.

At last his living tomb of rock was rent; Though but a narrow rift He yet had made Enough; it did a horrid monster lift, That clutched him close and held aloft a blade; He felt himself undone, when, lo! God had deliv'rance sent.