THE DESTROYERS (1898) HE strength of twice three thousand horse The line that holds the rending course, The stripped hulls, slinking through the gloom, The Brides of Death that wait the groom- Off-shore where sea and skyline blend The sullen, shouldering swells attend Adown the stricken capes no flare- The blindfold game of war. Nearer the up-flung beams that spell Clearer the barking guns that tell Their scattered flank to close. Sheer to the trap they crowd their way On shoal with scarce a foot below, Hidden and hushed we watch them throw Not here, not here your danger lies- Therefore-to break the rest ye seek, What midnight terror stays The bulk that checks against the spray Hit, and hard hit! The blow went home, The muffled, knocking stroke The steam that overruns the foam The foam that thins to smoke The smoke that clokes the deep aboil- Till, streaked with ash and sleeked with oil, THE DESTROYERS A shadow down the sickened wave But hear their chattering quick-fires rave Panic that shells the drifting spar- Now, while their silly smoke hangs thick, Lay in and lance them to the quick- Good luck to those that see the end, Good-bye to those that drown For each his chance as chance shall sendAnd 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 doom-bolt in the darkness freed, The white-hot wake, the 'wildering speed- W WHITE HORSES (1897) HERE run your colts at pasture? Where hide your mares to breed?' 'Mid bergs about the Ice-cap Or wove Sargasso weed; By chartless reef and channel, "Who holds the rein upon you?' The glut of all the sea. Afar, off-shore and single, Some stallion, rearing swift, Neighs hungry for new fodder, And calls us to the drift. WHITE HORSES Then down the cloven ridges A million hooves unshod Break forth the mad White Horses Girth-deep in hissing water Our furious vanguard strains- 'Whose hand may grip your nostrils- That spy upon our matings, That rope us where we run They know the strong White Horses From father unto son. We breathe about their cradles, 'And come they for your calling?' No wit of man may save. |