Is there no help, O pitying Heaven?
No warning voice in mercy given
Of the impending destiny?
The signal beckons—on they go;
Now o’er the bridge the lamp-lights glow,
Where, in the shuddering depth below,
The foam-flecked Firth roars hungrily.
With straining eyes the watchers run,
Longing to mark the passage done.
In vain: the blast his prey has won,