XXIV.

One bound he made, and gained the sand: Already at his feet hath sunk The foremost of the prying band, A gasping head, a quivering trunk: Another falls--but round him close A swarming circle of his foes; From right to left his path he cleft, And almost met the meeting wave: His boat appears--not five oars' length-- His comrades strain with desperate strength-- 1030 Oh! are they yet in time to save? His feet the foremost breakers lave; His band are plunging in the bay, Their sabres glitter through the spray; Wet--wild--unwearied to the strand They struggle--now they touch the land! They come--'tis but to add to slaughter-- His heart's best blood is on the water.