A stern chase is a long chase
And the wind dies every hour,
And the veil that covers the ocean’s face
Is Death and Wealth and Power.
Ten leagues behind, we cursed the wind
That would not blow by day,
Three nights we tried to trail her blind
And thrice she crept away;
O the fog blew thin and the breeze drew in
And the leagues lay green and gone,
By our keel that quivered we vowed to win
Ere the birth of the dismal dawn.
The wind’s awake, the rollers break,
Split by the scurrying prow,
We gulp our haste for the booty’s sake
And reef the tops’ls now;
For haste is dear, but the goal is near
And she hath not seen nor heard;
Our lights are lost, but our steel is here,
Our ears are sick for the word.
Our eyes are bright for the chance of night,
We strain across the gap
That yawns ’twixt us and the tossing light
That rocks in the rollers’ lap.
The span half-sped, we loose the head
In the teeth of the ocean’s frown,—
When the waves recoiled from the things we said,
For the stubborn fog dropped down!
The fog that shifts, the fog that drifts
Sank lazily onto the sea,
And we snatched one glimpse thro’ the final rifts
And steered from memory....
Like a wraith of snows her sheets arose,—
“’d-a-port!” her lookout cried;
And our steel leapt forth for its meal of blows,
As our chains caressed her side!
A stern chase is a long chase
And the wind dies every hour,
And the veil that covers the ocean’s face
Is Death and Wealth and Power.