Page:McClure's Magazine v10 no3 to v11 no2.djvu/467



A shadow down the sickened wave Long since her slayer fled: But hear their chattering quick-fires rave Astern, abeam, ahead! Panic that shells the drifting spar, Loud waste with none to check, Mad fear that rakes the low-hung star Or sweeps a consort’s deck.

Now, while their silly smoke hangs thick Now ere their wits they find Lay in and lance them to the quick— Our gallied whales are blind. Good luck to those that see the end Good-bye to those that drown— For each his chance as chance shall send— And God for all! Shut down!

The strength of twice three thousand horse That serve the one command: The hand that heaves the headlong force The hate that backs the hand: The doom-bolt in the darkness freed— The mine that splits the main— The white-hot wake, the ’wildering speed— The Choosers of the Slain!