Down 'mid the waves, accursed bark,
Down, down before the wind;
Thou canst not sink to doom more dark
Than that thou leavest behind.
Down, down for his accursed sake
Whose hand is on thy helm,
Above the heaving billows break—
Will they not overwhelm?
The blood is red upon the deck,
Of murder, not of strife;
Now, Ocean, let the hour of wreck
Atone for that of life!
Many a brave heart has grown cold,
Though battle has been done:
And shrieks have risen from the hold,
When human help was none.
We've sail'd amid the Spanish lines,
The black flag at the mast,
And burning towns and rifled shrines
Proclaim'd where we had past.
The captive's low and latest cry
Has risen on the night,
While night carousals mock'd the sky
With their unholy light.
The captain he is young and fair—
How can he look so young?
His locks of youth, his golden hair,
Are o'er his shoulders flung.
Of all the deeds that he has done,
Not one has left a trace:
The midnight cup, the noontide sun.
Have darken'd not his face.
His voice is low—his smile is sweet—
He has a girl's blue eyes;
And yet I would far rather meet
The storm in yonder skies.
The fiercest of our pirate band
Holds at his name the breath;
For there is blood on his right hand,
And in his heart is death.
He knows he rides above his grave,
Yet careless is his eye;
He looks with scorn upon the wave,
With scorn upon the sky.
Great God! the sights that I have seen
When far upon the main!
I'd rather that my death had been
Than see those sights again.
Pale faces glimmer, and are gone—
Wild voices rise from shore;
I see one giant wave sweep on—
It breaks!—we rise no more.