Lips of blood through the gloom, and pale phantoms of fear
Howled the peals of their horrible glee in my ear;
The thin fingers of demons stooped round me to clasp,
To wring thy cold form from the strength of my grasp;
With their dim eyes upturned, newly torn from the grave,
Glared the dead from their weltering shrouds on the wave;
Oh! dark was the struggle and fearful and vain
Thy cold limbs from their place in the deep to restrain;
Dread as Death the black bulk of a surge rumbled o'er,
I clasped thee, I felt thee, I saw thee no more!