With heads bent forward low, with oars thrown back in row,
Trembling over the edge of the water,
With breathless gaze we watch from our captain's lip to catch
The word for the charge and the slaughter.
'Tis given—the oars dip—with a light half-stroke the ship
Glides off—the waves hiss in twain riven—
The trumpet clamours high; and our short sharp battle-cry,
As we strain every nerve, rings to heaven.
The oar tingles as we grasp it, like a limb of those who clasp it:
Lithe and light through the white froth it flashes;
And pulsating with life, savage, active for the strife,
At her quarry the war-galley dashes.
On, mariners, pull on—one glancing thought alone
Of the homes and the loves that we cherish;
For we know, from rush like this, as our prow may strike or miss,
Ourselves or the foemen must perish.
But our helmsman's skill is tried our armèd beak to guide,
Where their quarter lies helpless before us;
And the thrilling, jarring crash, and the music of the smash
Tell our rowers that fortune smiles o'er us.
Look round upon the wreck,—mark the haughty Dorians' deck,
How they reel in their armour along it:
While our bow-men ply each string; and each javelin's on the wing,
Wafting death mid the braggarts that throng it.
Look where our gallant prow struck deep the deadly blow,
Shattered oars, mangled oars-men are lying:
The rent and started side sucks in the swamping tide,
And the surge drowns the groans of the dying.
The reddening ocean-flood drinks deep their hated blood,—
It shall stream yet in richer libations:
We'll repeat the lesson stern—Lacedæmon well shall learn
That the sea mocks her rule o'er the nations.
"Steady, steady now, my men—back her gently off again—
Give your helmsman free scope and dominion"—
We recoil for fresh attack, as a hawk may hover back,
Ere it swoop in the pride of its pinion.
Another charge,—another blow,—another crippled foe,—
'Tis Athenè herself that is guiding.
As, huddled in a flock, deer shrink back from the shock
Of the hunters that round them are riding,