Past which—and the ten all shuddered—monsters once
Made chaos of the world’s end. But no fangs
Closed over the black prow, and mile on mile
Slid under them, familiar as a meadow
To the small men they watched amid the smoke.
Mile on mile, by hundreds and by thousands,
The Atlantic sloped away. Then lands and harbors,
And a deep whistle groaning.
“Now!” said Hermes,
“Now!” So nine to one they lifted wing,