A shadow down the sickened wave
Long since her slayer fled:
But hear their chattering quick-fires rave
Astern, abeam, ahead!
Panic that shells the drifting spar,
Loud waste with none to check,
Mad fear that rakes the low-hung[8] star
Or sweeps a consort’s deck.
Now, while their silly smoke hangs thick
Now ere their wits they find
Lay in and lance them to the quick—
Our gallied whales are blind.
Good luck to those that see the end
Good-bye to those that drown—
For each his chance as chance shall send—
And God for all! Shut down!
The strength of twice three thousand horse
That serve the one command:
The hand that heaves the headlong force
The hate that backs the hand:
The doom-bolt in the darkness freed—
The mine that splits the main—
The white-hot wake, the ’wildering speed—
The Choosers of the Slain!
