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’mid the waves, accursed bark, Down, down before the wind; Thou canst not sink to doom more dark Than that thou leavest behind.

Down, down for his accursed sake Whose hand is on thy helm. Above the heaving billows break— Will they not overwhelm?

The blood is red upon the deck, Of murder, not of strife; Now, Ocean, let the hour of wreck Atone for that of life!

Many a brave heart has grown cold, Though battle has been done: And shrieks have risen from the hold, When human help was none.

We’ve sailed amid the Spanish lines, The black flag at the mast, And bunting towns and rifled shrines Proclaimed where we had past.

The captive’s low and latest cry Has risen on the night, While night-carousals mocked the sky With their unholy light.

The captain he is young and fair— How can he look so young? His locks of youth, his golden hair, Are o’er his shoulders flung.

Of all his deeds that he has done, Not one has left a trace: The midnight cup, the noontide sun. Have darkened not his face.