Before him not the ghost of shores,
Before him only shoreless seas.
The good mate said: ‘Now must we pray,
For lo, the very stars are gone.
Brave Admiral, speak, what shall I say?’
‘Why, say, “Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!”’
“‘My men grow mutinous day by day;
My men grow ghastly wan and weak.’
The stout mate thought of home; a spray
Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek.