Author Richard Henry Dana They're gone.—The helmsman stands alone; And one leans idly o'er the bow. Still as a tomb the ship keeps on; Nor sound nor stirring now.Hush, hark! as from the centre of the deep,Shrieks, fiendish yells! They stab them in their sleep. Tags Short Poems Rate this poem Select ratingGive it 1/5Give it 2/5Give it 3/5Give it 4/5Give it 5/5 No votes yet Rate Log in or register to post comments