Remote, around the lonesome ship,
Old Morgan moved, but knew it not,
For neither star nor moon fell down...
I trow that was a lonesome spot
He found, where boat and ship did dip
In sands like some half-sunken town,
And all things rose bat-winged and brown.
At last before the leader lay
A form that in the night did seem
A slain Goliath.
As in a dream,
He drew aside in his slow pace,
And look'd. He saw a sable face,
A friend that fell that very day,
Thrown straight across his wearied way.
He falter'd now. His iron heart,
That never yet refused its part,
Began to fail him; and his strength
Shook at his knees, as shakes the wind
A shatter'd ship.
His scatter'd mind
Ranged up and down the land. At length
He turn'd, as ships turn, tempest toss'd,
For now he knew that he was lost,
And sought in vain the moon, the stars,
In vain the battle-star of Mars.
Again he moved. And now again
He paused, he peer'd along the plain,
Another form before him lay.
He stood, and statue-white he stood,
He trembled like a stormy wood,—
It was a foeman brown and gray.
He lifted up his head again,
Again he search'd the great profound
For moon, for star, but sought in vain.
He kept his circle round and round;
The great ship lifting from the sand
And pointing heavenward like a hand.