 | Along the trail |  |
TWO AND FATE
The ship we ride the world in sniffs the storm,And throws its head up to the hurricane,
Quivering like a war-horse when ranks form
With scream of bugles and the shout of men,
Neighs to the challenge of the thunderbolt,
And charges in the squadrons of the surge,
Sabring its way with fury of revolt
And lashed with exaltation as a scourge!
Who would not rather founder in the fight
Than not have known the glory of the fray?
Ay, to go down in armor and in might,
With our last breath to dominate dismay,
To sink amid the mad sea's clashing spears
And with the cry of bugles in our ears!
1898
| Along the trail | |