All voiceless was the deep; the winds had sunk to sleep;
The veil of the night earth was wearing;
But the stars had pined away; and the streaks of eastern gray
Told the morn was her chariot preparing.
A plash of distant oars as from th' Achaian shores
On our sentinel's ear faintly sounded;
Our watch was keen, and true, we were Phormio's chosen crew;
To his oar at the signal each bounded.
The warning cry speeds fast, "the foe, they come at last;"
Oh little they deem what will meet them;
Right soon equipped are we, and we push at once to sea,
On the mid-wave to baffle and beat them.
Now through the glimmering haze we strain our eager gaze;—
A dark mass on the dark water rises;—
'Tis a galley;—'tis their fleet—how our joyous bosoms beat,
As the dawning revealed us our prizes!
Two score and seven prows were the squadrons of our foes,
There was sea-room and space for the meeting;
Yet they moved not to attack, but in troubled ring hung back
From the strife, whence was now no retreating.
Swift, swift, we glanced around them, and in closer circle bound them:
Still threat'ning the charge, still delaying:
For Phormio curbed our zeal, till the roughened main should feel
The breath of the east o'er it playing.
Blow, blow, thou Morning wind—why lingerest thou behind?
On high while the Day-god is soaring?
Come forth, and bid the Deep from the level slumber leap,
Its billows in majesty pouring.
Let the landsmen dread their swell—the mariner loves well
The laugh and the toss of the ocean;
Long time the gale and we have been comrades o'er the sea;
'Tis our helpmate in battle's commotion.
The shudder of the seas tells the coming of the breeze;
The ripples are glittering brightly;
Soon the purple billows grow, and their crests of foam they show,
As the freshening blast curls them lightly.
Swell higher, lusty gale—the Dorian crews are pale,
Their oars in the vexed surges drooping;
While our circling galleys halt, and veer round for the assault,
For the death-stroke each mariner stooping.