Behind the Gates of Hercules;
Before him not the ghost of shores,
Before him only shoreless seas.
The good mate said: “Now we must pray,
For lo, the very stars are gone.
Brave Adm’r’l speak; what shall I say?”
“Why say: ‘Sail on! sail on! sail on!’”
“My men grow mutinous day by day;
My men grow ghastly wan and weak.”
The stout mate thought of home; a spray