Where the plank reels black above the blue)
To know the fear of the souls that slew,
The thrust in the back of the goading brand,
To feel on the forehead the fatal dew,
To wrench in vain at the fettered hand,
With head held high, but heart unmanned,
With cheek turned pale to the breeze that blew,—
For his bones shall lie on the dipsey sand
Ere the sea shall smother the last adieu?
Gods of the false, and gods of the true!