With the crash and clashing of arméd vessels,
Grinding across the night.

Out of the dark the broadsides thunder,
Clattering to and fro:
The old sea-fighters, the old world's wonder,
Are manning their wrecks below.

You shall smell the smoke, you shall hear the crackle,
Shall mark on the surly blast
Rush and tear of the rending tackle,
Thud of the falling mast.

With the foam that flies and the spray that spatters,
Scourging the strand again,
A terrible outcry leaps and shatters--
Tumult of drowning men.

The steep gray cliff is alive and trembles--
Was never such fear as this!
A fleet, a fleet at its foot assembles
Out of the sea's abyss.

It quails and quivers, its grassy verges
Vibrant with uttermost dread:
It knows the groan of the laden surges,
The shout of the deathless Dead.

In a rolling march of reverberations,
Marching with wind and tide,