(A Double Rondeau)
Whose turn next to take his stand
Where the plank reels black above the blue,—
To wrench in vain at the fettered hand?—
Ere the sea shall smother the last adieu?
’Mid the gibes and jeers of the conquering crew
At the devil’s drift of the dread command
That ends the hopeless interview,—
Whose turn next to take his stand
On the oaken road to a farther land,
(Narrow and oaken, seen of few,
For the eye were steady indeed that scanned
Where the plank reels black above the blue)
To know the fear of the souls that slew,
The thrust in the back of the goading brand,
To feel on the forehead the fatal dew,
To wrench in vain at the fettered hand,
With head held high, but heart unmanned,
With cheek turned pale to the breeze that blew,—
For his bones shall lie on the dipsey sand
Ere the sea shall smother the last adieu?
Gods of the false, and gods of the true!
Grant that these fiends may understand
The things that on their plank we knew!—
That one may say to that cursed band:
Whose turn next?