Page:The Five Nations.djvu/33

Rh Look to your van a league away,—

What midnight terror stays

The bulk that checks against the spray

Her crackling tops ablaze?

Hit, and hard hit! The blow went home,

The muffled, knocking stroke—

The steam that overruns the foam—

The foam that thins to smoke—

The smoke that clokes the deep aboil—

The deep that chokes her throes

Till, streaked with ash and sleeked with oil,

The lukewarm whirlpools close!

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 a scornful star

Or sweeps a consort's deck!