For the pale flowers of earth, in that garland to shine,
Of our victim’s torn limbs gasping trophies we’ll twine;
For the rich mantling wine cup of luxury to tell,
With their hearts’ drained life-blood our goblets shall swell!
Sisters—rejoice! on yon foam-crested wave
There are ships going down with the fair and the brave;
As the storm petrel flaps his wing fitfully there,
Ye may hear in the wild blast the curse and the prayer!
Ye may hear the last groan as the victim sweeps by—
Ye may catch the last gleam of the quivering eye!