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There are wild forms hurrying to and fro, Seen darkly clear on that lurid glow; There are shout, and signal-gun, and call, And the dashing of water, but fruitless all! Man may not fetter, nor ocean tame The might and wrath of the rushing flame! It hath twined the mast like a glittering snake, That coils up a tree from a dusky brake; It hath touch'd the sails, and their canvass rolls Away from its breath into shrivell'd scrolls; It hath taken the flag's high place in air, And redden'd the stars with its wavy glare, And sent out bright arrows, and soar'd in glee, To a burning mount midst the moonlight sea. The swimmers are plunging from stern and prow— Eudora, Eudora! where, where art thou? The slave and his master alike are gone.— Mother! who stands on the deck alone? The child of thy bosom!—and lo! a brand Blazing up high in her lifted hand!