And ships were drifting with the dead
To shores where all was dumb! 20
Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood,
With dauntless words and high,
That shook the sere leaves from the wood,
As if a storm passed by—
Saying, We’ are twins in death, proud Sun, 25
Thy face is cold, thy race is run,
’Tis mercy bids thee go;
For thou ten thousand thousand years