20 
AMBERGRIS 
Nay, stretch a hand !  Although their eagle clutch 
O’erturn thy skiff, yet it is overmuch 
To grieve for that :  life is not so divine— 
I count it little grief to part with such ! 
 
We are wild serpents in a ring of fire ; 
Our necks stretch out, our haggard eyes aspire 
In desperation ;  from the fearful line 
Our coils revulse in impotence and ire. 
 
An idle song it was the poet sang, 
A quavering note—no brazen kettle’s clang, 
But gentle, drooping, tearful.  Nay, achieve ! 
I can remember how the finish rang 
 
Clear, sharp, and loud ;  the harp is glad to die 
And give the clarion one note silver-high. 
It was too sweet for music, and I weave 
In vain the tattered woof of memory. 
 
Ashes and dust ! 
Cold cinders dead ! 
Our swords are rust ; 
Our lives are fled 
Like dew on glass. 
In vain we lust ; 
Our hopes are sped, 
Alas !  alas ! 
From heaven we are thrust, we have no more trust. 
Alas ! 
 
Gold hairs and gray ! 
Red lips and white ! 
Warm hearts, cold clay ! 
Bright day, dim night ! 
Our spirits pass 
Like the hours away. 
We have no light, 
Alas !  alas !