The angry trough more angry grows,
And would-be sleepers fly their beds!
Confusion reigns above, below,—
And Jews and Gentiles fear the Lord,—
Yea, strong men seem as children now,
And strive to utter forth the word.[13]
The boats are lower’d in dreadful haste;
But ’tis too late,—for, one by one,
The merc’less ocean lays them waste;
And fruitless is the minute-gun.