The sun shot arrows instantly; And men turn'd east against the sun, And men did look and cry, "The sea!" And Morgan look'd, nay, every one Did look, and lift his hand, and shade His brow and look, and look dismay'd. Lo! looming up before the sun, Before their eyes, yet far away, A ship with many a tall mast lay,-- Lay resting, as if she had run Some splendid race through seas, and won The right to rest in salt flood bay,-- And lay until the level sun Uprose, and then she fell away, As mists melt in the full of day. Old Morgan lifts his bony hand, He does not speak or make command,-- Short time for wonder, doubt, delay; Dark objects sudden heave in sight As if blown out or born of night. It is enough, they turn; away! The sun is high, the sands are hot To touch, and all the tawny plain, That glistens white with salt sea sand, Sinks white and open as they tread And trudge, with half-averted head, As if to swallow them amain. They look, as men look back to land When standing out to stormy sea, But still keep face and murmur not; Keep stern and still as destiny, Or iron king of Germany. It was a sight! A slim dog slid White-mouth'd and still along the sand, The pleading picture of distress. He stopp'd, leap'd up to lick a hand, A hard black hand that sudden chid Him back and check'd his tenderness; But when the black man turn'd his head His poor mute friend had fallen dead. The very air hung white with heat, And white, and fair, and far away A lifted, shining snow-shaft lay As if to mock their mad retreat. The white, salt sands beneath their feet Did make the black men loom as grand, From out the lifting, heaving heat, As they rode sternly on and on, As any bronze men in the land That sit their statue steeds upon. The men were silent as men dead. The sun hung centred overhead, Nor seem'd to move. It molten hung Like some great central burner swung From lofty beams with golden bars In sacristy set round with stars. XXV. Why, flame could hardly be more hot; Yet on the mad pursuer came, Across the gleaming yielding ground, Right on, as if he fed on flame, Right on until the mid-day found The man within a pistol-shot. He hail'd, but Morgan answer'd not, He hail'd, then came a feeble shot, And strangely, in that vastness there, It seem'd to scarcely fret the air, But fell down harmless anywhere. He fiercely hail'd; and then there fell A horse. And then a man fell down, And in the sea-sand seem'd to drown. Then Vasques cursed, but scarce could tell The sound of his own voice, and all In mad confusion seem'd to fall.