And cast a longing eye,
On Matthews' massive pile of bricks,
Where my possessions lie.
Between us rolls a mighty flood
Of muddy slush and snow;
Unless I trust me to its waves
My rooms I must forego.
The heads of struggling sinners bob
Upon each tossing crest;
Some sink exhausted in the strife, -
The waves they cannot breast.
Some reach at last the promised shore,
But sink exhausted down;
The breakers' harsh and deafening roar
Their shouts of triumph drown.