of the storm, was heard. 
     For nothing spake the mariners in their toil,
     And all the captains of the war were dumb: 
     Too much oppressed with wonder, too much thrilled
     By their great chieftain’s silence, to disturb
     Such meditation with poor human speech. 
     Meantime the moon through slips of driving cloud
     Came forth, and glanced athwart the seas a path
     Of dusky splendour, like the Hadean brows,
     When with Elysian passion they behold
     Persephone’s complacent hueless cheeks. 
     Soon gathering strength and lustre, as a ship
     That swims into some blue and open bay
     With bright full-bosomed sails, the radiant car
     Of Artemis advanced, and on the waves
     Sparkled like arrows from her silver bow
     The keenness of her pure and tender gaze.

     Then, slowly, one by one the chiefs sought rest;
     The watches being set, and men to relieve
     The rowers at midseason.  Fair it was
     To see them as they lay!  Some up the prow,
     Some round the helm, in open-handed sleep;
     With casques unloosed, and bucklers put aside;
     The ten years’ tale of war upon their cheeks,
     Where clung the salt wet locks, and on their breasts
     Beards, the thick growth of many a proud campaign;
     And on their brows the bright invisible crown
     Victory sheds from her own radiant form,
     As o’er her favourites’ heads she sings and soars. 
     But dreams came not so calmly; as around
     Turbulent shores wild waves and swamping surf
     Prevail, while seaward, on the tranquil deeps,
     Reign placid surfaces and solemn peace,
     So, from the troubled strands of memory, they
     Launched and were tossed, long ere they found the tides
     That lead to the gentle bosoms of pure rest. 
     And like to one who from a ghostly watch
     In a lone house where murder hath been done,
     And secret violations, pale with stealth
     Emerges, staggering on the first chill gust
     Wherewith the morning greets him, feeling not
     Its balmy freshness on his bloodless cheek, —
     But swift to hide his midnight face afar,
     ’Mongst the old woods and timid-glancing flowers
     Hastens, till on the fresh reviving breasts
     Of tender Dryads folded he forgets
     The pallid witness of those nameless things,
     In renovated senses lapt, and joins
     The full, keen joyance of the day, so they
     From sights and sounds of battle smeared with blood,
     And shrieking souls on Acheron’s bleak tides,
     And wail of execrating kindred, slid
     Into oblivious slumber and a sense
     Of satiate deliciousness complete.