And if their dreams to quarters spring,
Or cheer their flag, or breast a stormy tide.
But drums are beat: Up anchor all!
The triple lines steam slowly on;
Day breaks, and through the sweep of decks each man
Stands coldly by his gun—
As cold as it. But he shall warm—
Warm with the solemn metal there,
And all its ordered fury share,
In attitude a gladiatorial form.