Page:McClure's Magazine volume 10.djvu/467

Rh 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
 * Goodbye 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!