Or where tides of trade convulse;
Something mantled like a shape
Grasps at last with pounding pulse—
Mist he holds; while mocking rings
All the riot sprung anew,
With the flap and clap of wings.
Nay, my craven, you who fear
All this cackle of the crew,
Carping at your coward ear!
We who know the Dame so well,