Thus on the shore stands a phantom army,
Lining for ever the channel’s rim.
Steady, helmsman! you guide the immortal;
Many a wreck is beneath you piled,
Many a brave yet unwary sailor
Over these waters has been beguiled.
Nor is it the storm or the scowling midnight,
Gold, or sickness, or fire’s dismay—
Nor is it the reef or treacherous quicksand
Will peril you most on your twisted way.