Elfin LandPART I.
Into the fabled Fairy landMy portals open wide,Where life is all a holidayFrom morn till eventide.A soft and dreamy atmosphereAbove its plains is hung,A summer noon and twilight fusedAnd mingled into one.From all its bounds the turbaned cockIs banished far away,As erst he was from Sybaris,Where drowsy people lay,Indulging drowsy phantasies,Long after break of day.The cricket’s wiry song by night,By day the humblebee’s,The loudest noises are, that floatUpon the Elfin breeze.The Welsh king, Arthur, and his courtHave dwelt long ages here—Sir Launcelot still whispers slyTo faithless Guenevere.Here Jacques and his gay compeersIn forests still carouse,Pavilioned by a network greenOf melancholy boughs.Removed beyond the Sabbath chime,Far in the shady wold,Unvexed by care they fleet the time,As in the Age of Gold.Still in the limpid runnels’ waves,Which round their lodges wind,And in the stones and in the trees,Monitions deep they find.That merry knot is also hereOf fabling Florentines,Who revelled while the Avenger hungO’er Arno and its vines.The love of story, dance, and song,They had in Tuscan land,Still warms their breasts, though ferried o’erUnto the Fairy strand.Here too La Mancha’s cavalierReposes ’neath his bays,Who roamed the wilds of tawny SpainIn quest of knightly praise.O’er river, vale, and mountain lone,He ne’er shall wander more,—His steed is in the self-same stallWith Roland’s Brigliadore.Stretched on the banks of Elfin streams,With antique knights he lies,And talks through all the livelong day,Of many an old emprize.Here sages dwell, whose names adornThe mediæval time,In lonely turrets, whence at nightTheir ruddy tapers shine.Aquinas, dialectic sage,Endowed with subtlest wits—Beneath a cobweb canopyThe saintly sophist sits.And he, who in his wizard glassTo Surry’s eye displayedHis gentle lady o’er the sea,With lilied pallor spread.Brave Surry, knightly bard, who cull’d,Where Tuscan summers shine,Ambrosial flowers of heavenly songTo deck a colder clime.Those cloistral lovers far renowned,The sage and nun, are here,Whose quenchless passion yielded notTo penances austere.In vain the serge, the flinty bed,The eremital glooms—The boy-god flashed his fire-tipt reedAthwart the censer’s fumes.Ficino, mighty Platonist,Hath here his dwelling-place;No sphingal countenance more calmThan his majestic face.Among the starry flock was he,Whose holy toils unsealedThe fountains of Hellenic lore,And all their wealth revealed.From Plato’s thoughts their Attic dress,To charm an era rude,He tore away, and in its steadA meaner garb indued.But unto eyes, o’er which no filmBy ignorance is thrown,His dreams those garments only graceIn which at birth they shone.Of bright Cadmean rune he woveA rich asbestic web;Sometimes its woof like sunset glows,Of gold and purple thread;Sometimes with rosy spring it vies—Then flowers inwoven shine;Sometimes diaphonous as oil;Than Coan gauze more fine.And thus each imaged thought, that sprungFrom his sciential brain,A fluent drapery received,To make its beauty plain.Here pilgrims dwell, strange sights that sawOn many a foreign strand—He born beneath the Doge’s rule,Beloved of Kubla Khan,And Mandeville, who journeyed farAgainst the Eastern wind,The sacred Capital to see,And miracles of Ind.None ever wore the sandal shoonMore marvellous than he;For then the world had far awayIts realms of mystery.The giant Roc then winnowed swiftThe morning-cradled breeze,And happy islands glittered o’erThe Occidental seas.Upon Saint Michael’s happy mornHow throbbed his glowing brow,When towards the ancient OrientHis galley turned her prow!Already in the wind he smellsHyblæan odors blownFrom isles invisible, afarAmid the Indian foam.The turbaned millions, dusky, wild,Already meet his eyes—The domes of Islam crescent-crownedIn long perspective rise,Mid waving palms, o’er level sands,With skyey verges low,Where from his eastern tent, the SunSpreads wide a saffron glow.The golden thrones of Asian kings,Their empery supreme,Their capitals Titanic, lavedBy many a famous stream;The cities, desolate and lone,Where desert monsters prowl,Where spiders film the royal throne,And shrieks the nightly owl;Enormous Caf, the mountain wallOf ancient Colchian land—Where dragon-drawn Medea gaveThe Argonaut her hand;Nysæan Meros, mid whose riftsThe viny God was born,—The empyreal sky its summit cleaves,In shape a golden horn;And o’er its top reclining swimIn zones of windless airThe slumbrous deities of Ind,Removed from earthly care;The Ammonian phalanx round its baseIn festal garments ranged,Their brows with ivied chaplets bound,Their swords tothyrsichanged;The ravenous gryphons, brooding o’erThe desert’s gleaming gold,The auroral Chersonese, that shinesWith treasures manifold;The groves of odorous scent, that lineThe green Sabæan shore,Whence wrapped in cerements dipt in balm,His sire the Phœnix bore;The Persian valley famed in song,Where gentle Hafiz strayed;The Indian Hollow far beyond,By mountains tall embayed;Whose virgins boast a richer bloomThan peaches of Cabool,And nymph-like fall their marble urnsWith fountain-waters cool;Whose looms produce a gorgeous web,That with the rainbow vies,So delicate its downy woof,So deep its royal dyes.The motionless Yogee, who standsIn wildernesses lone,His sleepless eye forever fixedOn Brahma’s airy throne,In blue infinity to meltHis troubled soul away,And of the sunny Monad formA portion and a ray.The tales, Milesian-like, that charmThe vacant ear at eve,Wherein the Orient fabulistsTheir marvels interweave;Of wondrous realms beyond the reachOf mortal footstep far,Whose maidens, winged with pinions light,Outstrip the falling star;Whose forests bear a vocal fruit,With human tongues endowed,That mid the autumn-laden boughsAre querulous and loud;Of sparry caves in musky hills,Which sevenfold seas surround,Where ancient kings enchanted lie,In dreamless slumber bound;Of potent gems, whose hidden mightCan thwart malignant star;Of Eblis’ pavement saffron-strewn’Neath fallen Istakhar;All these in long succession rose,Illumed by fancy’s ray,As swiftly towards the Morning landsHis galley ploughed her way.
Into the fabled Fairy landMy portals open wide,Where life is all a holidayFrom morn till eventide.A soft and dreamy atmosphereAbove its plains is hung,A summer noon and twilight fusedAnd mingled into one.From all its bounds the turbaned cockIs banished far away,As erst he was from Sybaris,Where drowsy people lay,Indulging drowsy phantasies,Long after break of day.The cricket’s wiry song by night,By day the humblebee’s,The loudest noises are, that floatUpon the Elfin breeze.The Welsh king, Arthur, and his courtHave dwelt long ages here—Sir Launcelot still whispers slyTo faithless Guenevere.Here Jacques and his gay compeersIn forests still carouse,Pavilioned by a network greenOf melancholy boughs.Removed beyond the Sabbath chime,Far in the shady wold,Unvexed by care they fleet the time,As in the Age of Gold.Still in the limpid runnels’ waves,Which round their lodges wind,And in the stones and in the trees,Monitions deep they find.That merry knot is also hereOf fabling Florentines,Who revelled while the Avenger hungO’er Arno and its vines.The love of story, dance, and song,They had in Tuscan land,Still warms their breasts, though ferried o’erUnto the Fairy strand.Here too La Mancha’s cavalierReposes ’neath his bays,Who roamed the wilds of tawny SpainIn quest of knightly praise.O’er river, vale, and mountain lone,He ne’er shall wander more,—His steed is in the self-same stallWith Roland’s Brigliadore.Stretched on the banks of Elfin streams,With antique knights he lies,And talks through all the livelong day,Of many an old emprize.Here sages dwell, whose names adornThe mediæval time,In lonely turrets, whence at nightTheir ruddy tapers shine.Aquinas, dialectic sage,Endowed with subtlest wits—Beneath a cobweb canopyThe saintly sophist sits.And he, who in his wizard glassTo Surry’s eye displayedHis gentle lady o’er the sea,With lilied pallor spread.Brave Surry, knightly bard, who cull’d,Where Tuscan summers shine,Ambrosial flowers of heavenly songTo deck a colder clime.Those cloistral lovers far renowned,The sage and nun, are here,Whose quenchless passion yielded notTo penances austere.In vain the serge, the flinty bed,The eremital glooms—The boy-god flashed his fire-tipt reedAthwart the censer’s fumes.Ficino, mighty Platonist,Hath here his dwelling-place;No sphingal countenance more calmThan his majestic face.Among the starry flock was he,Whose holy toils unsealedThe fountains of Hellenic lore,And all their wealth revealed.From Plato’s thoughts their Attic dress,To charm an era rude,He tore away, and in its steadA meaner garb indued.But unto eyes, o’er which no filmBy ignorance is thrown,His dreams those garments only graceIn which at birth they shone.Of bright Cadmean rune he woveA rich asbestic web;Sometimes its woof like sunset glows,Of gold and purple thread;Sometimes with rosy spring it vies—Then flowers inwoven shine;Sometimes diaphonous as oil;Than Coan gauze more fine.And thus each imaged thought, that sprungFrom his sciential brain,A fluent drapery received,To make its beauty plain.Here pilgrims dwell, strange sights that sawOn many a foreign strand—He born beneath the Doge’s rule,Beloved of Kubla Khan,And Mandeville, who journeyed farAgainst the Eastern wind,The sacred Capital to see,And miracles of Ind.None ever wore the sandal shoonMore marvellous than he;For then the world had far awayIts realms of mystery.The giant Roc then winnowed swiftThe morning-cradled breeze,And happy islands glittered o’erThe Occidental seas.Upon Saint Michael’s happy mornHow throbbed his glowing brow,When towards the ancient OrientHis galley turned her prow!Already in the wind he smellsHyblæan odors blownFrom isles invisible, afarAmid the Indian foam.The turbaned millions, dusky, wild,Already meet his eyes—The domes of Islam crescent-crownedIn long perspective rise,Mid waving palms, o’er level sands,With skyey verges low,Where from his eastern tent, the SunSpreads wide a saffron glow.The golden thrones of Asian kings,Their empery supreme,Their capitals Titanic, lavedBy many a famous stream;The cities, desolate and lone,Where desert monsters prowl,Where spiders film the royal throne,And shrieks the nightly owl;Enormous Caf, the mountain wallOf ancient Colchian land—Where dragon-drawn Medea gaveThe Argonaut her hand;Nysæan Meros, mid whose riftsThe viny God was born,—The empyreal sky its summit cleaves,In shape a golden horn;And o’er its top reclining swimIn zones of windless airThe slumbrous deities of Ind,Removed from earthly care;The Ammonian phalanx round its baseIn festal garments ranged,Their brows with ivied chaplets bound,Their swords tothyrsichanged;The ravenous gryphons, brooding o’erThe desert’s gleaming gold,The auroral Chersonese, that shinesWith treasures manifold;The groves of odorous scent, that lineThe green Sabæan shore,Whence wrapped in cerements dipt in balm,His sire the Phœnix bore;The Persian valley famed in song,Where gentle Hafiz strayed;The Indian Hollow far beyond,By mountains tall embayed;Whose virgins boast a richer bloomThan peaches of Cabool,And nymph-like fall their marble urnsWith fountain-waters cool;Whose looms produce a gorgeous web,That with the rainbow vies,So delicate its downy woof,So deep its royal dyes.The motionless Yogee, who standsIn wildernesses lone,His sleepless eye forever fixedOn Brahma’s airy throne,In blue infinity to meltHis troubled soul away,And of the sunny Monad formA portion and a ray.The tales, Milesian-like, that charmThe vacant ear at eve,Wherein the Orient fabulistsTheir marvels interweave;Of wondrous realms beyond the reachOf mortal footstep far,Whose maidens, winged with pinions light,Outstrip the falling star;Whose forests bear a vocal fruit,With human tongues endowed,That mid the autumn-laden boughsAre querulous and loud;Of sparry caves in musky hills,Which sevenfold seas surround,Where ancient kings enchanted lie,In dreamless slumber bound;Of potent gems, whose hidden mightCan thwart malignant star;Of Eblis’ pavement saffron-strewn’Neath fallen Istakhar;All these in long succession rose,Illumed by fancy’s ray,As swiftly towards the Morning landsHis galley ploughed her way.
Into the fabled Fairy landMy portals open wide,Where life is all a holidayFrom morn till eventide.
Into the fabled Fairy land
My portals open wide,
Where life is all a holiday
From morn till eventide.
A soft and dreamy atmosphereAbove its plains is hung,A summer noon and twilight fusedAnd mingled into one.
A soft and dreamy atmosphere
Above its plains is hung,
A summer noon and twilight fused
And mingled into one.
From all its bounds the turbaned cockIs banished far away,As erst he was from Sybaris,Where drowsy people lay,Indulging drowsy phantasies,Long after break of day.
From all its bounds the turbaned cock
Is banished far away,
As erst he was from Sybaris,
Where drowsy people lay,
Indulging drowsy phantasies,
Long after break of day.
The cricket’s wiry song by night,By day the humblebee’s,The loudest noises are, that floatUpon the Elfin breeze.
The cricket’s wiry song by night,
By day the humblebee’s,
The loudest noises are, that float
Upon the Elfin breeze.
The Welsh king, Arthur, and his courtHave dwelt long ages here—Sir Launcelot still whispers slyTo faithless Guenevere.
The Welsh king, Arthur, and his court
Have dwelt long ages here—
Sir Launcelot still whispers sly
To faithless Guenevere.
Here Jacques and his gay compeersIn forests still carouse,Pavilioned by a network greenOf melancholy boughs.
Here Jacques and his gay compeers
In forests still carouse,
Pavilioned by a network green
Of melancholy boughs.
Removed beyond the Sabbath chime,Far in the shady wold,Unvexed by care they fleet the time,As in the Age of Gold.
Removed beyond the Sabbath chime,
Far in the shady wold,
Unvexed by care they fleet the time,
As in the Age of Gold.
Still in the limpid runnels’ waves,Which round their lodges wind,And in the stones and in the trees,Monitions deep they find.
Still in the limpid runnels’ waves,
Which round their lodges wind,
And in the stones and in the trees,
Monitions deep they find.
That merry knot is also hereOf fabling Florentines,Who revelled while the Avenger hungO’er Arno and its vines.
That merry knot is also here
Of fabling Florentines,
Who revelled while the Avenger hung
O’er Arno and its vines.
The love of story, dance, and song,They had in Tuscan land,Still warms their breasts, though ferried o’erUnto the Fairy strand.
The love of story, dance, and song,
They had in Tuscan land,
Still warms their breasts, though ferried o’er
Unto the Fairy strand.
Here too La Mancha’s cavalierReposes ’neath his bays,Who roamed the wilds of tawny SpainIn quest of knightly praise.
Here too La Mancha’s cavalier
Reposes ’neath his bays,
Who roamed the wilds of tawny Spain
In quest of knightly praise.
O’er river, vale, and mountain lone,He ne’er shall wander more,—His steed is in the self-same stallWith Roland’s Brigliadore.
O’er river, vale, and mountain lone,
He ne’er shall wander more,—
His steed is in the self-same stall
With Roland’s Brigliadore.
Stretched on the banks of Elfin streams,With antique knights he lies,And talks through all the livelong day,Of many an old emprize.
Stretched on the banks of Elfin streams,
With antique knights he lies,
And talks through all the livelong day,
Of many an old emprize.
Here sages dwell, whose names adornThe mediæval time,In lonely turrets, whence at nightTheir ruddy tapers shine.
Here sages dwell, whose names adorn
The mediæval time,
In lonely turrets, whence at night
Their ruddy tapers shine.
Aquinas, dialectic sage,Endowed with subtlest wits—Beneath a cobweb canopyThe saintly sophist sits.
Aquinas, dialectic sage,
Endowed with subtlest wits—
Beneath a cobweb canopy
The saintly sophist sits.
And he, who in his wizard glassTo Surry’s eye displayedHis gentle lady o’er the sea,With lilied pallor spread.
And he, who in his wizard glass
To Surry’s eye displayed
His gentle lady o’er the sea,
With lilied pallor spread.
Brave Surry, knightly bard, who cull’d,Where Tuscan summers shine,Ambrosial flowers of heavenly songTo deck a colder clime.
Brave Surry, knightly bard, who cull’d,
Where Tuscan summers shine,
Ambrosial flowers of heavenly song
To deck a colder clime.
Those cloistral lovers far renowned,The sage and nun, are here,Whose quenchless passion yielded notTo penances austere.
Those cloistral lovers far renowned,
The sage and nun, are here,
Whose quenchless passion yielded not
To penances austere.
In vain the serge, the flinty bed,The eremital glooms—The boy-god flashed his fire-tipt reedAthwart the censer’s fumes.
In vain the serge, the flinty bed,
The eremital glooms—
The boy-god flashed his fire-tipt reed
Athwart the censer’s fumes.
Ficino, mighty Platonist,Hath here his dwelling-place;No sphingal countenance more calmThan his majestic face.
Ficino, mighty Platonist,
Hath here his dwelling-place;
No sphingal countenance more calm
Than his majestic face.
Among the starry flock was he,Whose holy toils unsealedThe fountains of Hellenic lore,And all their wealth revealed.
Among the starry flock was he,
Whose holy toils unsealed
The fountains of Hellenic lore,
And all their wealth revealed.
From Plato’s thoughts their Attic dress,To charm an era rude,He tore away, and in its steadA meaner garb indued.
From Plato’s thoughts their Attic dress,
To charm an era rude,
He tore away, and in its stead
A meaner garb indued.
But unto eyes, o’er which no filmBy ignorance is thrown,His dreams those garments only graceIn which at birth they shone.
But unto eyes, o’er which no film
By ignorance is thrown,
His dreams those garments only grace
In which at birth they shone.
Of bright Cadmean rune he woveA rich asbestic web;Sometimes its woof like sunset glows,Of gold and purple thread;
Of bright Cadmean rune he wove
A rich asbestic web;
Sometimes its woof like sunset glows,
Of gold and purple thread;
Sometimes with rosy spring it vies—Then flowers inwoven shine;Sometimes diaphonous as oil;Than Coan gauze more fine.
Sometimes with rosy spring it vies—
Then flowers inwoven shine;
Sometimes diaphonous as oil;
Than Coan gauze more fine.
And thus each imaged thought, that sprungFrom his sciential brain,A fluent drapery received,To make its beauty plain.
And thus each imaged thought, that sprung
From his sciential brain,
A fluent drapery received,
To make its beauty plain.
Here pilgrims dwell, strange sights that sawOn many a foreign strand—He born beneath the Doge’s rule,Beloved of Kubla Khan,
Here pilgrims dwell, strange sights that saw
On many a foreign strand—
He born beneath the Doge’s rule,
Beloved of Kubla Khan,
And Mandeville, who journeyed farAgainst the Eastern wind,The sacred Capital to see,And miracles of Ind.
And Mandeville, who journeyed far
Against the Eastern wind,
The sacred Capital to see,
And miracles of Ind.
None ever wore the sandal shoonMore marvellous than he;For then the world had far awayIts realms of mystery.
None ever wore the sandal shoon
More marvellous than he;
For then the world had far away
Its realms of mystery.
The giant Roc then winnowed swiftThe morning-cradled breeze,And happy islands glittered o’erThe Occidental seas.
The giant Roc then winnowed swift
The morning-cradled breeze,
And happy islands glittered o’er
The Occidental seas.
Upon Saint Michael’s happy mornHow throbbed his glowing brow,When towards the ancient OrientHis galley turned her prow!
Upon Saint Michael’s happy morn
How throbbed his glowing brow,
When towards the ancient Orient
His galley turned her prow!
Already in the wind he smellsHyblæan odors blownFrom isles invisible, afarAmid the Indian foam.
Already in the wind he smells
Hyblæan odors blown
From isles invisible, afar
Amid the Indian foam.
The turbaned millions, dusky, wild,Already meet his eyes—The domes of Islam crescent-crownedIn long perspective rise,
The turbaned millions, dusky, wild,
Already meet his eyes—
The domes of Islam crescent-crowned
In long perspective rise,
Mid waving palms, o’er level sands,With skyey verges low,Where from his eastern tent, the SunSpreads wide a saffron glow.
Mid waving palms, o’er level sands,
With skyey verges low,
Where from his eastern tent, the Sun
Spreads wide a saffron glow.
The golden thrones of Asian kings,Their empery supreme,Their capitals Titanic, lavedBy many a famous stream;
The golden thrones of Asian kings,
Their empery supreme,
Their capitals Titanic, laved
By many a famous stream;
The cities, desolate and lone,Where desert monsters prowl,Where spiders film the royal throne,And shrieks the nightly owl;
The cities, desolate and lone,
Where desert monsters prowl,
Where spiders film the royal throne,
And shrieks the nightly owl;
Enormous Caf, the mountain wallOf ancient Colchian land—Where dragon-drawn Medea gaveThe Argonaut her hand;
Enormous Caf, the mountain wall
Of ancient Colchian land—
Where dragon-drawn Medea gave
The Argonaut her hand;
Nysæan Meros, mid whose riftsThe viny God was born,—The empyreal sky its summit cleaves,In shape a golden horn;
Nysæan Meros, mid whose rifts
The viny God was born,—
The empyreal sky its summit cleaves,
In shape a golden horn;
And o’er its top reclining swimIn zones of windless airThe slumbrous deities of Ind,Removed from earthly care;
And o’er its top reclining swim
In zones of windless air
The slumbrous deities of Ind,
Removed from earthly care;
The Ammonian phalanx round its baseIn festal garments ranged,Their brows with ivied chaplets bound,Their swords tothyrsichanged;
The Ammonian phalanx round its base
In festal garments ranged,
Their brows with ivied chaplets bound,
Their swords tothyrsichanged;
The ravenous gryphons, brooding o’erThe desert’s gleaming gold,The auroral Chersonese, that shinesWith treasures manifold;
The ravenous gryphons, brooding o’er
The desert’s gleaming gold,
The auroral Chersonese, that shines
With treasures manifold;
The groves of odorous scent, that lineThe green Sabæan shore,Whence wrapped in cerements dipt in balm,His sire the Phœnix bore;
The groves of odorous scent, that line
The green Sabæan shore,
Whence wrapped in cerements dipt in balm,
His sire the Phœnix bore;
The Persian valley famed in song,Where gentle Hafiz strayed;The Indian Hollow far beyond,By mountains tall embayed;
The Persian valley famed in song,
Where gentle Hafiz strayed;
The Indian Hollow far beyond,
By mountains tall embayed;
Whose virgins boast a richer bloomThan peaches of Cabool,And nymph-like fall their marble urnsWith fountain-waters cool;
Whose virgins boast a richer bloom
Than peaches of Cabool,
And nymph-like fall their marble urns
With fountain-waters cool;
Whose looms produce a gorgeous web,That with the rainbow vies,So delicate its downy woof,So deep its royal dyes.
Whose looms produce a gorgeous web,
That with the rainbow vies,
So delicate its downy woof,
So deep its royal dyes.
The motionless Yogee, who standsIn wildernesses lone,His sleepless eye forever fixedOn Brahma’s airy throne,
The motionless Yogee, who stands
In wildernesses lone,
His sleepless eye forever fixed
On Brahma’s airy throne,
In blue infinity to meltHis troubled soul away,And of the sunny Monad formA portion and a ray.
In blue infinity to melt
His troubled soul away,
And of the sunny Monad form
A portion and a ray.
The tales, Milesian-like, that charmThe vacant ear at eve,Wherein the Orient fabulistsTheir marvels interweave;
The tales, Milesian-like, that charm
The vacant ear at eve,
Wherein the Orient fabulists
Their marvels interweave;
Of wondrous realms beyond the reachOf mortal footstep far,Whose maidens, winged with pinions light,Outstrip the falling star;
Of wondrous realms beyond the reach
Of mortal footstep far,
Whose maidens, winged with pinions light,
Outstrip the falling star;
Whose forests bear a vocal fruit,With human tongues endowed,That mid the autumn-laden boughsAre querulous and loud;
Whose forests bear a vocal fruit,
With human tongues endowed,
That mid the autumn-laden boughs
Are querulous and loud;
Of sparry caves in musky hills,Which sevenfold seas surround,Where ancient kings enchanted lie,In dreamless slumber bound;
Of sparry caves in musky hills,
Which sevenfold seas surround,
Where ancient kings enchanted lie,
In dreamless slumber bound;
Of potent gems, whose hidden mightCan thwart malignant star;Of Eblis’ pavement saffron-strewn’Neath fallen Istakhar;
Of potent gems, whose hidden might
Can thwart malignant star;
Of Eblis’ pavement saffron-strewn
’Neath fallen Istakhar;
All these in long succession rose,Illumed by fancy’s ray,As swiftly towards the Morning landsHis galley ploughed her way.
All these in long succession rose,
Illumed by fancy’s ray,
As swiftly towards the Morning lands
His galley ploughed her way.