Behind him lay the gray Azores,
Behind the Gates of Hercules;
Behind him not the ghost of shores.
Behind 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: as spray
Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek.
"What shall I say, brave Adm'r'l, say.
If we sight naught but seas at dawn?"
'Sail on! sail on! sail on! sail on!'"
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They sailed and sailed as the winds might blow.
Until at last the blanched mate said:
'Why, not even God would know
Should I and all my men fall dead.
These very winds forget their way.
For God from these dread seas is gone;
Now speak, brave Adm'r'l, speak, and say — "
He said: "Sail on! sail on! sail on!"
They sailed. They sailed. Then spake the mate:
"This mad sea shows its teeth tonight.
He curls his lips, he lies in wait.
With lifted teeth as if to bite!
Brave Adm'r'l say but one good word:
"What shall we do when hope is gone?"
The words leapt as a leaping sword:
"Sail on! sail on! sail on! sail on!"
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