Arrived from out abysmal deeps of brine,
A regal splendor glows within thy whorl,
Like pomp of rosy morn in shimmering pearl.
Surely "the hand that made thee is divine"!
Ah, why so richly dight for beauty's shrine?
No eye can feast on walls of gemmëd burl
Far down the overwhelming rush and swirl
Of awful wastes scarce plumbed of fathom-line!
Fit for the palace of high seneschal!
Inlaid with colors which the Tyrian King
Vain sought to rival on his royal scroll,
And echoing yet the ocean's trembling string:
Methinks the Master wrought this ivory hall
To please the love of beauty in His soul.