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Out on the smoke she goeth,

And her name no man knoweth;

And the cloud is northward, southward; Troy is gone for ever!

Ha! Marked ye? Heard ye? The crash of the towers that fall!

Wrath in the earth and quaking and a flood that sweepeth all,

[The Greek trumpet sounds.

Farewell!—O spirit grey,

Whatso is coming,

Fail not from under me.

Weak limbs, why tremble ye?

Forth where the new long day

Dawneth to slavery!