In the stifling dark below.

He hears the fight above him rave;
He fears his mates must yield;
He lies as in a narrow grave
Beneath a battle-field.

His fate will fall before the ship's,
Whate'er the ship betide;
He lifts the trumpet to his lips
As though he kissed a bride.

"Now blow thy best, blow thy last,
My trumpet, for the Right!"--
He has sent his soul in one strong blast,
To hearten them that fight.




COMRADES


"Oh, whither, whither, rider toward the west?"
"And whither, whither, rider toward the east?"
"I rode we ride upon the same high quest,
Whereon who enters may not be released;

"To seek the Cup whose form none ever saw,--
A nobler form than e'er was shapen yet,