While in night’s silence, o’er the distant shores,
From those tumultuous phalanxes was borne
The clang of arms—and trumpet’s hoarse response—
The tramp of rushing steeds, with hurrying hoofs
Above the helmed dead—and mingling wild,
Wails of the dying—hymns of victory—
And high o’er all, the Fates’ mysterious chant.[9]
Happy, my friend, who in thine early years
Hast crossed the wide dominion of the winds!
If e’er the pilot steered thy wandering bark