not thou nor I can bear the change! How then, if so be transplanted to yon sky? Hear I the roaring streams from Pirohitee’s peak of spears, when they leap down the crags and drown the villages?

— The blast! The blast! Up, spine, and meet it! (Leaps to his feet.)

PORTUGUESE SAILOR. How the sea rolls swashing ’gainst the side! Stand by for reefing, hearties! The winds are just crossing swords, pell-mell they’ll go lunging presently.

DANISH SAILOR. Crack, crack, old ship! So long as thou crackest, thou holdest! Well done! The mate there holds ye to it stiffly. He’s no more afraid than the isle fort at Cattegat, put there to fight the Baltic with storm-lashed guns, on which the sea-salt cakes!