The hiss of steam-spurts athwart the dark.
Lull them to confident drowsiness. Hark!
What is that sound? 'Tis the stertorous breath
Of a slumbering man,—and it smacks of death!
Full sixteen hours of continuous toil
Midst the fume of sulphur, the reek of oil,
Have told their tale on the man's tired brain,
And Death is in charge of the clattering train!
Sleep—Death's brother, as poets deem,
Stealeth soft to his side; a dream