I
Behold two fleets, the one with woe for trail,
The other, rapture. As they sight the strait,
Through which but one can pass, Greed, urged by Hate,
Drives Thraldom's crafts with help of steam and gale.
They feel their way. The guns, with which they hale,
Raise jets, that look tall elms from Hope, the gate,
To Peace, the Palace; then, their speed is great,
Manoeuvering fast to head off, or assail.
Drawing the sea up for his driving steam,
Greed breaks all mirrors in his grand state room,
That show him dark inevitable doom,
Close hovering, and exults: "I am Supreme.
When seas lack water for my funnel fume,
I bid life send its every crimson stream."