Becalmed

To-day the Titan in his granite bed
     Forgets his wrath and agony, and sleeps;
     Only a wrinkle o'er his forehead creeps,
As if a twinge of the old torture fed
Some dreamy memory of a foregone dread,
     The pang of boreal scourgings. Down the deeps
     A green light glimmers to where silence keeps
Eternal Sabbath, and the heaviest tread
     Of tempest sends no murmur; the pale shark
Winds to and fro among the purple dulse,—
     An evil thought, a spectre in the dark,
The hideous nightmare of life's fevered pulse;
To slumbering Hate no inner spasms convulse:
     So glides the traitor's will in silence to its mark.