Behind, the Gates of Hercules;
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! and on!’”
“My men grow mutinous day by day;
My men grow ghastly, wan and weak.”
The stout mate thought of home; a spray