Away upon the sandy seas, The gleaming, burning, boundless plain. How solemn-like, how still, as when The mighty-minded Genoese
Drew three tall ships and led his men From land they might not meet again. The black men rode in front by two, The fair one follow'd close, and kept
Her face held down as if she wept; But Morgan kept the rear, and threw His flowing, swaying beard aback Anon along their lonesome track.
They rode against the level sun, And spake not he or any one. The weary day fell down to rest, A star upon his mantled breast,
Ere scarce the sun fell out of space, And Venus glimmer'd in his place. Yea, all the stars shone just as fair, And constellations kept their round,
And look'd from out the great profound, And marched, and countermarch'd, and shone Upon that desolation there, Why just the same as if proud man
Strode up and down array'd in gold And purple as in days of old, And reckon'd all of his own plan, Or made at least for man alone
And man's dominion from a throne. Yet on push'd Morgan silently, And straight as strong ship on a sea; And ever as he rode there lay
To right, to left, and in his way, Strange objects looming in the dark, Some like a mast, or ark, or bark. And things half hidden in the sand
Lay down before them where they pass'd,— A broken beam, half-buried mast, A spar or bar, such as might be Blown crosswise, tumbled on the strand
Of some sail-crowded stormy sea.
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