|
The Rime of the Ancyent MarinereIII
I saw a something in the Sky
No bigger than my fist;
At first it seem`d a little speck
And then it seem`d a mist:
It mov`d and mov`d, and took at last
A certain shape, I wist.
A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist!
And still it ner`d and ner`d;
And, an it dodged a water-sprite,
It plung`d and tack`d and veer`d.
With throat unslack`d, with black lips bak`d
Ne could we laugh, ne wail:
Then while thro` drouth all dumb they stood
I bit my arm and suck`d the blood
And cry`d, A sail! A sail!
With throat unslack`d, with black lips bak`d
Agape they hear`d me call:
Gramercy! they for joy did grin
And all at once their breath drew in
As they were drinking all.
She doth not tack from side to side--
Hither to work us weal
Withouten wind, withouten tide
She steddies with upright keel.
The western wave was all a flame,
The day was well nigh done!
Almost upon the western wave
Rested the broad bright Sun;
When that strange shape drove suddenly
Betwixt us and the Sun.
And strait the Sun was fleck`d with bars
(Heaven`s mother send us grace)
As if thro` a dungeon grate he peer`d
With broad and burning face.
Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud)
How fast she neres and neres!
Are those her sails that glance in the Sun
Like restless gossameres?
Are th[e]se her naked ribs, which fleck`d
The sun that did behind them peer?
And are th[e]se two all, all the crew,
That woman and her fleshless Pheere?
His bones were black with many a crack,
All black and bare, I ween;
Jet-black and bare, save where with rust
Of mouldy damps and charnel crust
They`re patch`d with purple and green.
Her lips are red, her looks are free,
Her locks are yellow as gold:
Her skin is white as leprosy,
And she is far liker Death than he;
Her flesh makes the still air cold.
The naked Hulk alongside came
And the Twain were playing dice;
"The Game is done! I`ve won, I`ve won!"
Quoth she, and whistled thrice.
A gust of wind sterte up behind
And whistled thro` his bones;
Thro` the holes of his eyes and the hole of his mouth
Half-whistles and half-groans.
With never a whisper in the Sea
Oft darts the Spectre-ship;
While clombe above the Eastern bar
The Horned Moon, with one bright Star
Almost atween the tips.
One after one by the horned Moon
(Listen!, O Stranger! to me)
Each turn`d his face with a ghastly pang
And curs`d me with his ee.
Four times fifty living men,
With never a sigh or groan.
With heavy thump, a lifeless lump
They dropp`d down one by one.
Their souls did from their bodies fly,--
They fled to bliss or woe;
And every soul it pass`d me by,
Like the whiz of my Cross-bow.
|
