In my hand I bear / The thyrsus, tipped with fragrant cones of pine.

Wae is me!

I have read in some old marvellous tale, / Some legend strange and vague, / That a midnight host of spectres pale / Beleaguered the walls of Prague. // Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, / With the wan moon overhead, / There stood, as in an awful dream, / The army of the dead.

After being struck by three hot shot from the coastal fort, the attacking ship of the line burned uncontrollably until the flames reached her powder magazine and she blew up.