Deep in the bosom of the ocean,
Where sunshine fades to twilight gloom,
The pure pearls lie, and the coral bloom
Rests unsway'd by the upper motion—
Calm and still the hours pass by
The lovely things that sleeping lie,
Deep in the bosom of the ocean.
The thunder rolls from cloud to cloud,
And the bitter blast sweeps o'er the sea,
Shaking the waters mightily;
But ne'er the tempest's voice so loud,
Sinketh down to the things that lie—
The lovely things that sleeping lie,
Deep in the bosom of the ocean.
The icebergs crack with a sullen boom,
Riven by the hands of the angry North;
And, like the Angel of Wrath sent forth,
The whirlwind stalks with the breath of doom,
Crushing, like dust 'neath its heavy tread,
The last frail spar o'er the seaman's head;
But nought can reach the things that lie—
The lovely things that sleeping lie,
Deep in the bosom of the ocean.
Deep in the bosom of God's-acre,
Beyond the reach of grief or care,
As sweetly rest the good and fair,
Where Life's rude foes can ne'er o'ertake her;
Calmly and sweetly the hours pass by
The blessèd ones who sleeping lie,
Deep in the bosom of God's-acre.
Patience! thou poor one, faint and weary,
For thou shalt come unto this rest,
And leaning on a mother's breast,
Forget the world to thee so dreary:
Calmly and sweetly the hours pass by
The happy ones who hoping lie
Deep in the bosom of God's-acre.