When from my clutch the glittering pomp was torn.
SEA-VOICES: They slumber, they slumber, the kings in their pride.
The beak of the Rover is dipt in the tide;
The sails of the Rover are red in the wind;
And white is the trail of the foam flung behind.
They have fallen, have fallen, the kings in their pride;
Their sea-gates are forced by the rush of the tide;
Their splendour is scattered as surf on the wind;
And red is the trail of the terror behind.
Forsaken, forlorn,