"Loose me, old ferryman: play fair:
Try if my arm be strong."

Thrice drave he hard on Charon's breast,
And struck him thrice to ground,
Till stranger ghosts came out o' the west
And sat like stars around.

And thrice old Charon rose up high
And seized him as before.
"Loose me! a broken man am I,
And fight with you no more.''

"Zacho, arise, my home is near;
I pray you walk with me:
I've hung my tent so full of fear
You well may shake to see.

"Home to my home come they who fight,
Who fight but not to win:
Without, my tent is black as night,
And red as fire within.

"Though winds blow cold and I grow old,
My tent is fast and fair:
The pegs are dead men's stout right arms,
The cords, their golden hair."