Page:McClure's Magazine v10 no3 to v11 no2.djvu/466

Sheer to the trap they crowd their way
From ports for this unbarred.
Quiet, and count our fatted^[6] prey,
The convoy and her guard!

On shoal with scarce a foot below,
Where rock and islet throng,
Hidden and hushed we watch them throw
Their sweeping lights along. . . .
Not here, not here your danger lies—
(Stare hard, O hooded eyne!)
Save where the dazed rock-pigeons rise
The lit cliffs give no sign.

Therefore—to break the rest ye seek
The Narrow Seas to clear—
Hark to the syren's whimpering shriek—
The driven death is here!
Look to your van a league away,—
What midnight terror stays
The bulk that checks against the spray
Her crackling tops ablaze?

Hit and hard hit! The blow went home
The muffled, knocking stroke—
The steam that over-runs the foam—
The foam that thins to smoke—
The smoke that clokes the deep aboil—
The deep that chokes her throes
Till, streaked with ash and sleeked with oil,
The lukewarm whirlpools close!