But as he painted, slowly, man by man,The seamen gathered near; the Bosun stoodBehind him, jeering; then the Sails beganSniggering with comment that it was not good.Chips flicked his sketch with little scraps of wood,Saying, "That hit the top-knot," every time.Cook mocked, "My lovely drawings; it's a crime."Slowly the men came nearer, till a crowdStood at his elbow, muttering as he drew;The Bosun, turning to them, spoke aloud,"This is the ship that never got there. YouLook at her here, what Dauber's trying to do.Look at her! lummy, like a Christmas-tree.That thing's a ship; he calls this painting. See?"Seeing the crowd, the Mate came forward; then"Sir," said the Bosun, "come and see the sight!Here's Dauber makes a circus for the men.He calls this thing a ship--this hell's delight!""Man," said the Mate, "you'll never get her rightDaubing like that. Look here!" He took a brush."Now, Dauber, watch; I'll put you to the blush."Look here. Look there. Now watch this ship of mine."He drew her swiftly from a memory stored."God, sir," the Bosun said, "you do her fine!""Ay," said the Mate, "I do so, by the Lord!I'll paint a ship with any man aboard."They hung about his sketch like beasts at bait."There now, I taught him painting," said the Mate.When he had gone, the gathered men dispersed;Yet two or three still lingered to disputeWhat errors made the Dauber's work the worst.They probed his want of knowledge to the root."Bei Gott!" they swore, "der Dauber cannot do 't;He haf no knolich how to put der pense.Der Mate's is goot. Der Dauber haf no sense.""You hear?" the Bosun cried, "you cannot do it!""A gospel truth," the Cook said, "true as hell!And wisdom, Dauber, if you only knew it;A five year boy would do a ship as well.""If that's the kind of thing you hope to sell,God help you," echoed Chips. "I tell you true,The job's beyond you, Dauber; drop it, do."Drop it, in God's name drop it, and have done!You see you cannot do it. Here's the MatePaints you to frazzles before everyone;Paints you a dandy clipper while you wait.While you, Lord love us, daub. I tell you straight,We've had enough of daubing; drop it; quit.You cannot paint, so make an end of it.""That's sense," said all; "you cannot, why pretend?"The Dauber rose and put his easel by."You've said enough," he said, "now let it end.Who cares how bad my painting may be? IMean to go on, and, if I fail, to try.However much I miss of my intent,If I have done my best I'll be content."You cannot understand that. Let it be.You cannot understand, nor know, nor share.This is a matter touching only me;My sketch may be a daub, for aught I care.You may be right. But even if you were,Your mocking should not stop this work of mine;Rot though it be, its prompting is divine."You cannot understand that--you, and you,And you, you Bosun. You can stand and jeer,That is the task your spirit fits you to,That you can understand and hold most dear.Grin, then, like collars, ear to donkey ear,But let me daub. Try, you, to understandWhich task will bear the light best on God's hand."VThe wester came as steady as the Trades;Brightly it blew, and still the ship did shoulderThe brilliance of the water's white cockadesInto the milky green of smoky smoulder.The sky grew bluer and the air grew colder.Southward she thundered while the westers held,Proud, with taut bridles, pawing, but compelled.And still the Dauber strove, though all men mocked,To draw the splendour of the passing thing,And deep inside his heart a something locked,Long pricking in him, now began to sting--A fear of the disasters storm might bring;His rank as painter would be ended then--He would keep watch and watch like other men.And go aloft with them to man the yardWhen the great ship was rolling scuppers under,Burying her snout all round the compass card,While the green water struck at her and stunned her;When the lee-rigging slacked, when one long thunderBoomed from the black to windward, when the sailBooted and spurred the devil in the galeFor him to ride on men: that was the timeThe Dauber dreaded; then the test would come,When seas, half-frozen, slushed the decks with slime,And all the air was blind with flying scum;When the drenched sails were furled, when the fierce humIn weather riggings died into the roarOf God's eternal never tamed by shore.Once in the passage he had worked aloft,Shifting her suits one summer afternoon,In the bright Trade wind, when the wind was soft,Shaking the points, making the tackle croon.But that was child's play to the future: soonHe would be ordered up when sails and sparsWere flying and going mad among the stars.He had been scared that first time, daunted, thrilled,Not by the height so much as by the size,And then the danger to the man unskilledIn standing on a rope that runs through eyes."But in a storm," he thought, "the yards will riseAnd roll together down, and snap their gear!"The sweat came cold upon his palms for fear.Sometimes in Gloucester he had felt a pangSwinging below the house-eaves on a stage.But stages carry rails; here he would hangUpon a jerking rope in a storm's rage,Ducked that the sheltering oilskin might assuageThe beating of the storm, clutching the jack,Beating the sail, and being beaten back.Drenched, frozen, gasping, blinded, beaten dumb,High in the night, reeling great blinding arcsAs the ship rolled, his chappy fingers numb,The deck below a narrow blur of marks,The sea a welter of whiteness shot with sparks,Now snapping up in bursts, now dying away,Salting the horizontal snow with spray.A hundred and fifty feet above the deck,And there, while the ship rolls, boldly to sitUpon a foot-rope moving, jerk and check,While half a dozen seamen work on it;Held by one hand, straining, by strength and witTo toss a gasket's coil around the yard,How could he compass that when blowing hard?And if he failed in any least degree,Or faltered for an instant, or showed slack,He might go drown himself within the sea,And add a bubble to the clipper's track.He had signed his name, there was no turning back,No pardon for default--this must be done.One iron rule at sea binds everyone.Till now he had been treated with contemptAs neither man nor thing, a creature borneOn the ship's articles, but left exemptFrom all the seamen's life except their scorn.But he would rank as seaman off the Horn,Work as a seaman, and be kept or castBy standards set for men before the mast.Even now they shifted suits of sails; they bentThe storm-suit ready for the expected time;The mighty wester that the Plate had lentHad brought them far into the wintry clime.At dawn, out of the shadow, there was rime,The dim Magellan Clouds were frosty clear,The wind had edge, the testing-time was near.And then he wondered if the tales were liesTold by old hands to terrify the new,For, since the ship left England, only twiceHad there been need to start a sheet or clew,Then only royals, for an hour or two,And no seas broke aboard, nor was it cold.What were these gales of which the stories told?The thought went by. He had heard the Bosun tellToo often, and too fiercely, not to knowThat being off the Horn in June is hell:Hell of continual toil in ice and snow,Frostbitten hell in which the westers blowShrieking for days on end, in which the seasGulf the starved seamen till their marrows freeze.Such was the weather he might look to find,Such was the work expected: there remainedFirmly to set his teeth, resolve his mind,And be the first, however much it pained,And bring his honour round the Horn unstained,And win his mates' respect; and thence, untainted,Be ranked as man however much he painted.He drew deep breath; a gantline swayed aloftA lower topsail, hard with rope and leather,Such as men's frozen fingers fight with oftBelow the Ramirez in Cape Horn weather.The arms upon the yard hove all together,Lighting the head along; a thought occurredWithin the painter's brain like a bright bird:That this, and so much like it, of man's toil,Compassed by naked manhood in strange places,Was all heroic, but outside the coilWithin which modern art gleams or grimaces;That if he drew that line of sailor's facesSweating the sail, their passionate play and change,It would be new, and wonderful, and strange.That that was what his work meant; it would beA training in new vision--a revealingOf passionate men in battle with the sea,High on an unseen stage, shaking and reeling;And men through him would understand their feeling,Their might, their misery, their tragic power,And all by suffering pain a little hour;High on the yard with them, feeling their pain,Battling with them; and it had not been done.He was a door to new worlds in the brain,A window opening letting in the sun,A voice saying, "Thus is bread fetched and ports won,And life lived out at sea where men existSolely by man's strong brain and sturdy wrist."So he decided, as he cleaned his brasses,Hearing without, aloft, the curse, the shoutWhere the taut gantline passes and repasses,Heaving new topsails to be lighted out.It was most proud, however self might doubt,To share man's tragic toil and paint it true.He took the offered Fate: this he would do.That night the snow fell between six and seven,A little feathery fall so light, so dry--An aimless dust out of a confused heaven,Upon an air no steadier than a sigh;The powder dusted down and wandered bySo purposeless, so many, and so cold,Then died, and the wind ceased and the ship rolled.Rolled till she clanged--rolled till the brain was tired,Marking the acme of the heaves, the pauseWhile the sea-beauty rested and respired,Drinking great draughts of roller at her hawse.Flutters of snow came aimless upon flaws."Lock up your paints," the Mate said, speaking light:"This is the Horn; you'll join my watch to-night!"VIAll through the windless night the clipper rolledIn a great swell with oily gradual heavesWhich rolled her down until her time-bells tolled,Clang, and the weltering water moaned like beeves.The thundering rattle of slatting shook the sheaves,Startles of water made the swing ports gush,The sea was moaning and sighing and saying "Hush!"It was all black and starless. Peering downInto the water, trying to pierce the gloom,One saw a dim, smooth, oily glitter of brownHeaving and dying away and leaving roomFor yet another. Like the march of doomCame those great powers of marching silences;Then fog came down, dead-cold, and hid the seas.They set the Dauber to the foghorn. ThereHe stood upon the poop, making to soundOut of the pump the sailor's nasal blare,Listening lest ice should make the note resound.She bayed there like a solitary houndLost in a covert; all the watch she bayed.The fog, come closelier down, no answer made.Denser it grew, until the ship was lost.The elemental hid her; she was mergedIn mufflings of dark death, like a man's ghost,New to the change of death, yet thither urged.Then from the hidden waters something surged--Mournful, despairing, great, greater than speech,A noise like one slow wave on a still beach.Mournful, and then again mournful, and stillOut of the night that mighty voice arose;The Dauber at his foghorn felt the thrill.Who rode that desolate sea? What forms were those?Mournful, from things defeated, in the throesOf memory of some conquered hunting-ground,Out of the night of death arose the sound."Whales!" said the Mate. They stayed there all night longAnswering the horn. Out of the night they spoke,Defeated creatures who had suffered wrong,But were still noble underneath the stroke.They filled the darkness when the Dauber woke;The men came peering to the rail to hear,And the sea sighed, and the fog rose up sheer.A wall of nothing at the world's last edge,Where no life came except defeated life.The Dauber felt shut in within a hedge,Behind which form was hidden and thought was rife,And that a blinding flash, a thrust, a knifeWould sweep the hedge away and make all plain,Brilliant beyond all words, blinding the brain.So the night passed, but then no morning broke--Only a something showed that night was dead.A sea-bird, cackling like a devil, spoke,And the fog drew away and hung like lead.Like mighty cliffs it shaped, sullen and red;Like glowering gods at watch it did appear,And sometimes drew away, and then drew near.Like islands, and like chasms, and like hell,But always mighty and red, gloomy and ruddy,Shutting the visible sea in like a well;Slow heaving in vast ripples, blank and muddy,Where the sun should have risen it streaked bloody.The day was still-born; all the sea-fowl scatteringSplashed the still water, mewing, hovering, clattering.Then Polar snow came down little and light,Till all the sky was hidden by the small,Most multitudinous drift of dirty whiteTumbling and wavering down and covering all--Covering the sky, the sea, the clipper tall,Furring the ropes with white, casing the mast,Coming on no known air, but blowing past.And all the air seemed full of gradual moan,As though in those cloud-chasms the horns were blowingThe mort for gods cast out and overthrown,Or for the eyeless sun plucked out and going.Slow the low gradual moan came in the snowing;The Dauber felt the prelude had begun.The snowstorm fluttered by; he saw the sunShow and pass by, gleam from one towering prisonInto another, vaster and more grim,Which in dull crags of darkness had arisenTo muffle-to a final door on him.The gods upon the dull crags lowered dim,The pigeons chattered, quarrelling in the track.In the south-west the dimness dulled to black.Then came the cry of "Call all hands on deck!"The Dauber knew its meaning; it was come:Cape Horn, that tramples beauty into wreck,And crumples steel and smites the strong man dumb.Down clattered flying kites and staysails: someSang out in quick, high calls: the fair-leads skirled,And from the south-west came the end of the world."Caught in her ball-dress," said the Bosun, hauling"Lee-ay, lee-ay!" quick, high, came the men's call;It was all wallop of sails and startled calling."Let fly!" "Let go!" "Clew up!" and "Let go all!""Now up and make them fast!" "Here, give us a haul!""Now up and stow them! Quick! By God! we're done!"The blackness crunched all memory of the sun."Up!" said the Mate. "Mizen top-gallants. Hurry!"The Dauber ran, the others ran, the sailsSlatted and shook; out of the black a flurryWhirled in fine lines, tattering the edge to trails.Painting and art and England were old talesTold in some other life to that pale man,Who struggled with white fear and gulped and ran.He struck a ringbolt in his haste and fell--Rose, sick with pain, half-lamed in his left knee;He reached the shrouds where clambering men pell-mellHustled each other up and cursed him; heHurried aloft with them: then from the seaCame a cold, sudden breath that made the hairStiff on the neck, as though Death whispered there.A man below him punched him in the side."Get up, you Dauber, or let me get past."He saw the belly of the skysail skied,Gulped, and clutched tight, and tried to go more fast.Sometimes he missed his ratline and was grassed,Scraped his shin raw against the rigid line.The clamberers reached the futtock-shrouds' incline.Cursing they came; one, kicking out behind,Kicked Dauber in the mouth, and one belowPunched at his calves; the futtock-shrouds inclinedIt was a perilous path for one to go."Up, Dauber, up!" A curse followed a blow.He reached the top and gasped, then on, then on.And one voice yelled "Let go!" and one "All gone!"Fierce clamberers, some in oilskins, some in rags,Hustling and hurrying up, up the steep stairs.Before the windless sails were blown to flags,And whirled like dirty birds athwart great airs,Ten men in all, to get this mast of theirsSnugged to the gale in time. "Up! Damn you, run!"The mizen topmast head was safely won."Lay out!" the Bosun yelled. The Dauber laidOut on the yard, gripping the yard, and feelingSick at the mighty space of air displayedBelow his feet, where mewing birds were wheeling.A giddy fear was on him; he was reeling.He bit his lip half through, clutching the jack.A cold sweat glued the shirt upon his back.The yard was shaking, for a brace was loose.He felt that he would fall; he clutched, he bent,Clammy with natural terror to the shoesWhile idiotic promptings came and went.Snow fluttered on a wind-flaw and was spent;He saw the water darken. Someone yelled,"Frap it; don't stay to furl! Hold on!" He held.Darkness came down--half darkness--in a whirl;The sky went out, the waters disappeared.He felt a shocking pressure of blowing hurlThe ship upon her side. The darkness spearedAt her with wind; she staggered, she careered,Then down she lay. The Dauber felt her go;He saw his yard tilt downwards. Then the snowWhirled all about--dense, multitudinous, cold--Mixed with the wind's one devilish thrust and shriek,Which whiffled out men's tears, deafened, took hold,Flattening the flying drift against the cheek.The yards buckled and bent, man could not speak.The ship lay on her broadside; the wind's soundHad devilish malice at having got her downed.* * * * *How long the gale had blown he could not tell,Only the world had changed, his life had died.A moment now was everlasting hell.Nature an onslaught from the weather side,A withering rush of death, a frost that cried,Shrieked, till he withered at the heart; a hailPlastered his oilskins with an icy mail."Cut!" yelled his mate. He looked--the sail was gone,Blown into rags in the first furious squall;The tatters drummed the devil's tattoo. OnThe buckling yard a block thumped like a mall.The ship lay--the sea smote her, the wind's bawlCame, "loo, loo, loo!" The devil cried his houndsOn to the poor spent stag strayed in his bounds."Cut! Ease her!" yelled his mate; the Dauber heard.His mate wormed up the tilted yard and slashed,A rag of canvas skimmed like a darting bird.The snow whirled, the ship bowed to it, the gear lashed,The sea-tops were cut off and flung down smashed;Tatters of shouts were flung, the rags of yells--And clang, clang, clang, below beat the two bells."O God!" the Dauber moaned. A roaring rang,Blasting the royals like a cannonade;The backstays parted with a cracking clang,The upper spars were snapped like twigs decayed--Snapped at their heels, their jagged splinters splayed,Like white and ghastly hair erect with fear.The Mate yelled, "Gone, by God, and pitched them clear!""Up!" yelled the Bosun; "up and clear the wreck!"The Dauber followed where he led: belowHe caught one giddy glimpsing of the deckFilled with white water, as though heaped with snow.He saw the streamers of the rigging blowStraight out like pennons from the splintered mast,Then, all sense dimmed, all was an icy blastRoaring from nether hell and filled with ice,Roaring and crashing on the jerking stage,An utter bridle given to utter vice,Limitless power mad with endless rageWithering the soul; a minute seemed an age.He clutched and hacked at ropes, at rags of sail,Thinking that comfort was a fairy-taleTold long ago--long, long ago--long sinceHeard of in other lives--imagined, dreamed--There where the basest beggar was a princeTo him in torment where the tempest screamed,Comfort and warmth and ease no longer seemedThings that a man could know: soul, body, brain,Knew nothing but the wind, the cold, the pain."Leave that!" the Bosun shouted; "Crojick save!"The splitting crojick, not yet gone to rags,Thundered below, beating till something gave,Bellying between its buntlines into bags.Some birds were blown past, shrieking: dark, like shags,Their backs seemed, looking down. "Leu, leu!" they cried.The ship lay, the seas thumped her; she had died.They reached the crojick yard, which buckled, buckledLike a thin whalebone to the topsail's strain.They laid upon the yard and heaved and knuckled,Pounding the sail, which jangled and leapt again.It was quite hard with ice, its rope like chain,Its strength like seven devils; it shook the mast.They cursed and toiled and froze: a long time passed.
But as he painted, slowly, man by man,The seamen gathered near; the Bosun stoodBehind him, jeering; then the Sails beganSniggering with comment that it was not good.Chips flicked his sketch with little scraps of wood,Saying, "That hit the top-knot," every time.Cook mocked, "My lovely drawings; it's a crime."
But as he painted, slowly, man by man,
The seamen gathered near; the Bosun stood
Behind him, jeering; then the Sails began
Sniggering with comment that it was not good.
Chips flicked his sketch with little scraps of wood,
Saying, "That hit the top-knot," every time.
Cook mocked, "My lovely drawings; it's a crime."
Slowly the men came nearer, till a crowdStood at his elbow, muttering as he drew;The Bosun, turning to them, spoke aloud,"This is the ship that never got there. YouLook at her here, what Dauber's trying to do.Look at her! lummy, like a Christmas-tree.That thing's a ship; he calls this painting. See?"
Slowly the men came nearer, till a crowd
Stood at his elbow, muttering as he drew;
The Bosun, turning to them, spoke aloud,
"This is the ship that never got there. You
Look at her here, what Dauber's trying to do.
Look at her! lummy, like a Christmas-tree.
That thing's a ship; he calls this painting. See?"
Seeing the crowd, the Mate came forward; then"Sir," said the Bosun, "come and see the sight!Here's Dauber makes a circus for the men.He calls this thing a ship--this hell's delight!""Man," said the Mate, "you'll never get her rightDaubing like that. Look here!" He took a brush."Now, Dauber, watch; I'll put you to the blush.
Seeing the crowd, the Mate came forward; then
"Sir," said the Bosun, "come and see the sight!
Here's Dauber makes a circus for the men.
He calls this thing a ship--this hell's delight!"
"Man," said the Mate, "you'll never get her right
Daubing like that. Look here!" He took a brush.
"Now, Dauber, watch; I'll put you to the blush.
"Look here. Look there. Now watch this ship of mine."He drew her swiftly from a memory stored."God, sir," the Bosun said, "you do her fine!""Ay," said the Mate, "I do so, by the Lord!I'll paint a ship with any man aboard."They hung about his sketch like beasts at bait."There now, I taught him painting," said the Mate.
"Look here. Look there. Now watch this ship of mine."
He drew her swiftly from a memory stored.
"God, sir," the Bosun said, "you do her fine!"
"Ay," said the Mate, "I do so, by the Lord!
I'll paint a ship with any man aboard."
They hung about his sketch like beasts at bait.
"There now, I taught him painting," said the Mate.
When he had gone, the gathered men dispersed;Yet two or three still lingered to disputeWhat errors made the Dauber's work the worst.They probed his want of knowledge to the root."Bei Gott!" they swore, "der Dauber cannot do 't;He haf no knolich how to put der pense.Der Mate's is goot. Der Dauber haf no sense."
When he had gone, the gathered men dispersed;
Yet two or three still lingered to dispute
What errors made the Dauber's work the worst.
They probed his want of knowledge to the root.
"Bei Gott!" they swore, "der Dauber cannot do 't;
He haf no knolich how to put der pense.
Der Mate's is goot. Der Dauber haf no sense."
"You hear?" the Bosun cried, "you cannot do it!""A gospel truth," the Cook said, "true as hell!And wisdom, Dauber, if you only knew it;A five year boy would do a ship as well.""If that's the kind of thing you hope to sell,God help you," echoed Chips. "I tell you true,The job's beyond you, Dauber; drop it, do.
"You hear?" the Bosun cried, "you cannot do it!"
"A gospel truth," the Cook said, "true as hell!
And wisdom, Dauber, if you only knew it;
A five year boy would do a ship as well."
"If that's the kind of thing you hope to sell,
God help you," echoed Chips. "I tell you true,
The job's beyond you, Dauber; drop it, do.
"Drop it, in God's name drop it, and have done!You see you cannot do it. Here's the MatePaints you to frazzles before everyone;Paints you a dandy clipper while you wait.While you, Lord love us, daub. I tell you straight,We've had enough of daubing; drop it; quit.You cannot paint, so make an end of it."
"Drop it, in God's name drop it, and have done!
You see you cannot do it. Here's the Mate
Paints you to frazzles before everyone;
Paints you a dandy clipper while you wait.
While you, Lord love us, daub. I tell you straight,
We've had enough of daubing; drop it; quit.
You cannot paint, so make an end of it."
"That's sense," said all; "you cannot, why pretend?"The Dauber rose and put his easel by."You've said enough," he said, "now let it end.Who cares how bad my painting may be? IMean to go on, and, if I fail, to try.However much I miss of my intent,If I have done my best I'll be content.
"That's sense," said all; "you cannot, why pretend?"
The Dauber rose and put his easel by.
"You've said enough," he said, "now let it end.
Who cares how bad my painting may be? I
Mean to go on, and, if I fail, to try.
However much I miss of my intent,
If I have done my best I'll be content.
"You cannot understand that. Let it be.You cannot understand, nor know, nor share.This is a matter touching only me;My sketch may be a daub, for aught I care.You may be right. But even if you were,Your mocking should not stop this work of mine;Rot though it be, its prompting is divine.
"You cannot understand that. Let it be.
You cannot understand, nor know, nor share.
This is a matter touching only me;
My sketch may be a daub, for aught I care.
You may be right. But even if you were,
Your mocking should not stop this work of mine;
Rot though it be, its prompting is divine.
"You cannot understand that--you, and you,And you, you Bosun. You can stand and jeer,That is the task your spirit fits you to,That you can understand and hold most dear.Grin, then, like collars, ear to donkey ear,But let me daub. Try, you, to understandWhich task will bear the light best on God's hand."
"You cannot understand that--you, and you,
And you, you Bosun. You can stand and jeer,
That is the task your spirit fits you to,
That you can understand and hold most dear.
Grin, then, like collars, ear to donkey ear,
But let me daub. Try, you, to understand
Which task will bear the light best on God's hand."
V
The wester came as steady as the Trades;Brightly it blew, and still the ship did shoulderThe brilliance of the water's white cockadesInto the milky green of smoky smoulder.The sky grew bluer and the air grew colder.Southward she thundered while the westers held,Proud, with taut bridles, pawing, but compelled.
The wester came as steady as the Trades;
Brightly it blew, and still the ship did shoulder
The brilliance of the water's white cockades
Into the milky green of smoky smoulder.
The sky grew bluer and the air grew colder.
Southward she thundered while the westers held,
Proud, with taut bridles, pawing, but compelled.
And still the Dauber strove, though all men mocked,To draw the splendour of the passing thing,And deep inside his heart a something locked,Long pricking in him, now began to sting--A fear of the disasters storm might bring;His rank as painter would be ended then--He would keep watch and watch like other men.
And still the Dauber strove, though all men mocked,
To draw the splendour of the passing thing,
And deep inside his heart a something locked,
Long pricking in him, now began to sting--
A fear of the disasters storm might bring;
His rank as painter would be ended then--
He would keep watch and watch like other men.
And go aloft with them to man the yardWhen the great ship was rolling scuppers under,Burying her snout all round the compass card,While the green water struck at her and stunned her;When the lee-rigging slacked, when one long thunderBoomed from the black to windward, when the sailBooted and spurred the devil in the gale
And go aloft with them to man the yard
When the great ship was rolling scuppers under,
Burying her snout all round the compass card,
While the green water struck at her and stunned her;
When the lee-rigging slacked, when one long thunder
Boomed from the black to windward, when the sail
Booted and spurred the devil in the gale
For him to ride on men: that was the timeThe Dauber dreaded; then the test would come,When seas, half-frozen, slushed the decks with slime,And all the air was blind with flying scum;When the drenched sails were furled, when the fierce humIn weather riggings died into the roarOf God's eternal never tamed by shore.
For him to ride on men: that was the time
The Dauber dreaded; then the test would come,
When seas, half-frozen, slushed the decks with slime,
And all the air was blind with flying scum;
When the drenched sails were furled, when the fierce hum
In weather riggings died into the roar
Of God's eternal never tamed by shore.
Once in the passage he had worked aloft,Shifting her suits one summer afternoon,In the bright Trade wind, when the wind was soft,Shaking the points, making the tackle croon.But that was child's play to the future: soonHe would be ordered up when sails and sparsWere flying and going mad among the stars.
Once in the passage he had worked aloft,
Shifting her suits one summer afternoon,
In the bright Trade wind, when the wind was soft,
Shaking the points, making the tackle croon.
But that was child's play to the future: soon
He would be ordered up when sails and spars
Were flying and going mad among the stars.
He had been scared that first time, daunted, thrilled,Not by the height so much as by the size,And then the danger to the man unskilledIn standing on a rope that runs through eyes."But in a storm," he thought, "the yards will riseAnd roll together down, and snap their gear!"The sweat came cold upon his palms for fear.
He had been scared that first time, daunted, thrilled,
Not by the height so much as by the size,
And then the danger to the man unskilled
In standing on a rope that runs through eyes.
"But in a storm," he thought, "the yards will rise
And roll together down, and snap their gear!"
The sweat came cold upon his palms for fear.
Sometimes in Gloucester he had felt a pangSwinging below the house-eaves on a stage.But stages carry rails; here he would hangUpon a jerking rope in a storm's rage,Ducked that the sheltering oilskin might assuageThe beating of the storm, clutching the jack,Beating the sail, and being beaten back.
Sometimes in Gloucester he had felt a pang
Swinging below the house-eaves on a stage.
But stages carry rails; here he would hang
Upon a jerking rope in a storm's rage,
Ducked that the sheltering oilskin might assuage
The beating of the storm, clutching the jack,
Beating the sail, and being beaten back.
Drenched, frozen, gasping, blinded, beaten dumb,High in the night, reeling great blinding arcsAs the ship rolled, his chappy fingers numb,The deck below a narrow blur of marks,The sea a welter of whiteness shot with sparks,Now snapping up in bursts, now dying away,Salting the horizontal snow with spray.
Drenched, frozen, gasping, blinded, beaten dumb,
High in the night, reeling great blinding arcs
As the ship rolled, his chappy fingers numb,
The deck below a narrow blur of marks,
The sea a welter of whiteness shot with sparks,
Now snapping up in bursts, now dying away,
Salting the horizontal snow with spray.
A hundred and fifty feet above the deck,And there, while the ship rolls, boldly to sitUpon a foot-rope moving, jerk and check,While half a dozen seamen work on it;Held by one hand, straining, by strength and witTo toss a gasket's coil around the yard,How could he compass that when blowing hard?
A hundred and fifty feet above the deck,
And there, while the ship rolls, boldly to sit
Upon a foot-rope moving, jerk and check,
While half a dozen seamen work on it;
Held by one hand, straining, by strength and wit
To toss a gasket's coil around the yard,
How could he compass that when blowing hard?
And if he failed in any least degree,Or faltered for an instant, or showed slack,He might go drown himself within the sea,And add a bubble to the clipper's track.He had signed his name, there was no turning back,No pardon for default--this must be done.One iron rule at sea binds everyone.
And if he failed in any least degree,
Or faltered for an instant, or showed slack,
He might go drown himself within the sea,
And add a bubble to the clipper's track.
He had signed his name, there was no turning back,
No pardon for default--this must be done.
One iron rule at sea binds everyone.
Till now he had been treated with contemptAs neither man nor thing, a creature borneOn the ship's articles, but left exemptFrom all the seamen's life except their scorn.But he would rank as seaman off the Horn,Work as a seaman, and be kept or castBy standards set for men before the mast.
Till now he had been treated with contempt
As neither man nor thing, a creature borne
On the ship's articles, but left exempt
From all the seamen's life except their scorn.
But he would rank as seaman off the Horn,
Work as a seaman, and be kept or cast
By standards set for men before the mast.
Even now they shifted suits of sails; they bentThe storm-suit ready for the expected time;The mighty wester that the Plate had lentHad brought them far into the wintry clime.At dawn, out of the shadow, there was rime,The dim Magellan Clouds were frosty clear,The wind had edge, the testing-time was near.
Even now they shifted suits of sails; they bent
The storm-suit ready for the expected time;
The mighty wester that the Plate had lent
Had brought them far into the wintry clime.
At dawn, out of the shadow, there was rime,
The dim Magellan Clouds were frosty clear,
The wind had edge, the testing-time was near.
And then he wondered if the tales were liesTold by old hands to terrify the new,For, since the ship left England, only twiceHad there been need to start a sheet or clew,Then only royals, for an hour or two,And no seas broke aboard, nor was it cold.What were these gales of which the stories told?
And then he wondered if the tales were lies
Told by old hands to terrify the new,
For, since the ship left England, only twice
Had there been need to start a sheet or clew,
Then only royals, for an hour or two,
And no seas broke aboard, nor was it cold.
What were these gales of which the stories told?
The thought went by. He had heard the Bosun tellToo often, and too fiercely, not to knowThat being off the Horn in June is hell:Hell of continual toil in ice and snow,Frostbitten hell in which the westers blowShrieking for days on end, in which the seasGulf the starved seamen till their marrows freeze.
The thought went by. He had heard the Bosun tell
Too often, and too fiercely, not to know
That being off the Horn in June is hell:
Hell of continual toil in ice and snow,
Frostbitten hell in which the westers blow
Shrieking for days on end, in which the seas
Gulf the starved seamen till their marrows freeze.
Such was the weather he might look to find,Such was the work expected: there remainedFirmly to set his teeth, resolve his mind,And be the first, however much it pained,And bring his honour round the Horn unstained,And win his mates' respect; and thence, untainted,Be ranked as man however much he painted.
Such was the weather he might look to find,
Such was the work expected: there remained
Firmly to set his teeth, resolve his mind,
And be the first, however much it pained,
And bring his honour round the Horn unstained,
And win his mates' respect; and thence, untainted,
Be ranked as man however much he painted.
He drew deep breath; a gantline swayed aloftA lower topsail, hard with rope and leather,Such as men's frozen fingers fight with oftBelow the Ramirez in Cape Horn weather.The arms upon the yard hove all together,Lighting the head along; a thought occurredWithin the painter's brain like a bright bird:
He drew deep breath; a gantline swayed aloft
A lower topsail, hard with rope and leather,
Such as men's frozen fingers fight with oft
Below the Ramirez in Cape Horn weather.
The arms upon the yard hove all together,
Lighting the head along; a thought occurred
Within the painter's brain like a bright bird:
That this, and so much like it, of man's toil,Compassed by naked manhood in strange places,Was all heroic, but outside the coilWithin which modern art gleams or grimaces;That if he drew that line of sailor's facesSweating the sail, their passionate play and change,It would be new, and wonderful, and strange.
That this, and so much like it, of man's toil,
Compassed by naked manhood in strange places,
Was all heroic, but outside the coil
Within which modern art gleams or grimaces;
That if he drew that line of sailor's faces
Sweating the sail, their passionate play and change,
It would be new, and wonderful, and strange.
That that was what his work meant; it would beA training in new vision--a revealingOf passionate men in battle with the sea,High on an unseen stage, shaking and reeling;And men through him would understand their feeling,Their might, their misery, their tragic power,And all by suffering pain a little hour;
That that was what his work meant; it would be
A training in new vision--a revealing
Of passionate men in battle with the sea,
High on an unseen stage, shaking and reeling;
And men through him would understand their feeling,
Their might, their misery, their tragic power,
And all by suffering pain a little hour;
High on the yard with them, feeling their pain,Battling with them; and it had not been done.He was a door to new worlds in the brain,A window opening letting in the sun,A voice saying, "Thus is bread fetched and ports won,And life lived out at sea where men existSolely by man's strong brain and sturdy wrist."
High on the yard with them, feeling their pain,
Battling with them; and it had not been done.
He was a door to new worlds in the brain,
A window opening letting in the sun,
A voice saying, "Thus is bread fetched and ports won,
And life lived out at sea where men exist
Solely by man's strong brain and sturdy wrist."
So he decided, as he cleaned his brasses,Hearing without, aloft, the curse, the shoutWhere the taut gantline passes and repasses,Heaving new topsails to be lighted out.It was most proud, however self might doubt,To share man's tragic toil and paint it true.He took the offered Fate: this he would do.
So he decided, as he cleaned his brasses,
Hearing without, aloft, the curse, the shout
Where the taut gantline passes and repasses,
Heaving new topsails to be lighted out.
It was most proud, however self might doubt,
To share man's tragic toil and paint it true.
He took the offered Fate: this he would do.
That night the snow fell between six and seven,A little feathery fall so light, so dry--An aimless dust out of a confused heaven,Upon an air no steadier than a sigh;The powder dusted down and wandered bySo purposeless, so many, and so cold,Then died, and the wind ceased and the ship rolled.
That night the snow fell between six and seven,
A little feathery fall so light, so dry--
An aimless dust out of a confused heaven,
Upon an air no steadier than a sigh;
The powder dusted down and wandered by
So purposeless, so many, and so cold,
Then died, and the wind ceased and the ship rolled.
Rolled till she clanged--rolled till the brain was tired,Marking the acme of the heaves, the pauseWhile the sea-beauty rested and respired,Drinking great draughts of roller at her hawse.Flutters of snow came aimless upon flaws."Lock up your paints," the Mate said, speaking light:"This is the Horn; you'll join my watch to-night!"
Rolled till she clanged--rolled till the brain was tired,
Marking the acme of the heaves, the pause
While the sea-beauty rested and respired,
Drinking great draughts of roller at her hawse.
Flutters of snow came aimless upon flaws.
"Lock up your paints," the Mate said, speaking light:
"This is the Horn; you'll join my watch to-night!"
VI
All through the windless night the clipper rolledIn a great swell with oily gradual heavesWhich rolled her down until her time-bells tolled,Clang, and the weltering water moaned like beeves.The thundering rattle of slatting shook the sheaves,Startles of water made the swing ports gush,The sea was moaning and sighing and saying "Hush!"
All through the windless night the clipper rolled
In a great swell with oily gradual heaves
Which rolled her down until her time-bells tolled,
Clang, and the weltering water moaned like beeves.
The thundering rattle of slatting shook the sheaves,
Startles of water made the swing ports gush,
The sea was moaning and sighing and saying "Hush!"
It was all black and starless. Peering downInto the water, trying to pierce the gloom,One saw a dim, smooth, oily glitter of brownHeaving and dying away and leaving roomFor yet another. Like the march of doomCame those great powers of marching silences;Then fog came down, dead-cold, and hid the seas.
It was all black and starless. Peering down
Into the water, trying to pierce the gloom,
One saw a dim, smooth, oily glitter of brown
Heaving and dying away and leaving room
For yet another. Like the march of doom
Came those great powers of marching silences;
Then fog came down, dead-cold, and hid the seas.
They set the Dauber to the foghorn. ThereHe stood upon the poop, making to soundOut of the pump the sailor's nasal blare,Listening lest ice should make the note resound.She bayed there like a solitary houndLost in a covert; all the watch she bayed.The fog, come closelier down, no answer made.
They set the Dauber to the foghorn. There
He stood upon the poop, making to sound
Out of the pump the sailor's nasal blare,
Listening lest ice should make the note resound.
She bayed there like a solitary hound
Lost in a covert; all the watch she bayed.
The fog, come closelier down, no answer made.
Denser it grew, until the ship was lost.The elemental hid her; she was mergedIn mufflings of dark death, like a man's ghost,New to the change of death, yet thither urged.Then from the hidden waters something surged--Mournful, despairing, great, greater than speech,A noise like one slow wave on a still beach.
Denser it grew, until the ship was lost.
The elemental hid her; she was merged
In mufflings of dark death, like a man's ghost,
New to the change of death, yet thither urged.
Then from the hidden waters something surged--
Mournful, despairing, great, greater than speech,
A noise like one slow wave on a still beach.
Mournful, and then again mournful, and stillOut of the night that mighty voice arose;The Dauber at his foghorn felt the thrill.Who rode that desolate sea? What forms were those?Mournful, from things defeated, in the throesOf memory of some conquered hunting-ground,Out of the night of death arose the sound.
Mournful, and then again mournful, and still
Out of the night that mighty voice arose;
The Dauber at his foghorn felt the thrill.
Who rode that desolate sea? What forms were those?
Mournful, from things defeated, in the throes
Of memory of some conquered hunting-ground,
Out of the night of death arose the sound.
"Whales!" said the Mate. They stayed there all night longAnswering the horn. Out of the night they spoke,Defeated creatures who had suffered wrong,But were still noble underneath the stroke.They filled the darkness when the Dauber woke;The men came peering to the rail to hear,And the sea sighed, and the fog rose up sheer.
"Whales!" said the Mate. They stayed there all night long
Answering the horn. Out of the night they spoke,
Defeated creatures who had suffered wrong,
But were still noble underneath the stroke.
They filled the darkness when the Dauber woke;
The men came peering to the rail to hear,
And the sea sighed, and the fog rose up sheer.
A wall of nothing at the world's last edge,Where no life came except defeated life.The Dauber felt shut in within a hedge,Behind which form was hidden and thought was rife,And that a blinding flash, a thrust, a knifeWould sweep the hedge away and make all plain,Brilliant beyond all words, blinding the brain.
A wall of nothing at the world's last edge,
Where no life came except defeated life.
The Dauber felt shut in within a hedge,
Behind which form was hidden and thought was rife,
And that a blinding flash, a thrust, a knife
Would sweep the hedge away and make all plain,
Brilliant beyond all words, blinding the brain.
So the night passed, but then no morning broke--Only a something showed that night was dead.A sea-bird, cackling like a devil, spoke,And the fog drew away and hung like lead.Like mighty cliffs it shaped, sullen and red;Like glowering gods at watch it did appear,And sometimes drew away, and then drew near.
So the night passed, but then no morning broke--
Only a something showed that night was dead.
A sea-bird, cackling like a devil, spoke,
And the fog drew away and hung like lead.
Like mighty cliffs it shaped, sullen and red;
Like glowering gods at watch it did appear,
And sometimes drew away, and then drew near.
Like islands, and like chasms, and like hell,But always mighty and red, gloomy and ruddy,Shutting the visible sea in like a well;Slow heaving in vast ripples, blank and muddy,Where the sun should have risen it streaked bloody.The day was still-born; all the sea-fowl scatteringSplashed the still water, mewing, hovering, clattering.
Like islands, and like chasms, and like hell,
But always mighty and red, gloomy and ruddy,
Shutting the visible sea in like a well;
Slow heaving in vast ripples, blank and muddy,
Where the sun should have risen it streaked bloody.
The day was still-born; all the sea-fowl scattering
Splashed the still water, mewing, hovering, clattering.
Then Polar snow came down little and light,Till all the sky was hidden by the small,Most multitudinous drift of dirty whiteTumbling and wavering down and covering all--Covering the sky, the sea, the clipper tall,Furring the ropes with white, casing the mast,Coming on no known air, but blowing past.
Then Polar snow came down little and light,
Till all the sky was hidden by the small,
Most multitudinous drift of dirty white
Tumbling and wavering down and covering all--
Covering the sky, the sea, the clipper tall,
Furring the ropes with white, casing the mast,
Coming on no known air, but blowing past.
And all the air seemed full of gradual moan,As though in those cloud-chasms the horns were blowingThe mort for gods cast out and overthrown,Or for the eyeless sun plucked out and going.Slow the low gradual moan came in the snowing;The Dauber felt the prelude had begun.The snowstorm fluttered by; he saw the sun
And all the air seemed full of gradual moan,
As though in those cloud-chasms the horns were blowing
The mort for gods cast out and overthrown,
Or for the eyeless sun plucked out and going.
Slow the low gradual moan came in the snowing;
The Dauber felt the prelude had begun.
The snowstorm fluttered by; he saw the sun
Show and pass by, gleam from one towering prisonInto another, vaster and more grim,Which in dull crags of darkness had arisenTo muffle-to a final door on him.The gods upon the dull crags lowered dim,The pigeons chattered, quarrelling in the track.In the south-west the dimness dulled to black.
Show and pass by, gleam from one towering prison
Into another, vaster and more grim,
Which in dull crags of darkness had arisen
To muffle-to a final door on him.
The gods upon the dull crags lowered dim,
The pigeons chattered, quarrelling in the track.
In the south-west the dimness dulled to black.
Then came the cry of "Call all hands on deck!"The Dauber knew its meaning; it was come:Cape Horn, that tramples beauty into wreck,And crumples steel and smites the strong man dumb.Down clattered flying kites and staysails: someSang out in quick, high calls: the fair-leads skirled,And from the south-west came the end of the world.
Then came the cry of "Call all hands on deck!"
The Dauber knew its meaning; it was come:
Cape Horn, that tramples beauty into wreck,
And crumples steel and smites the strong man dumb.
Down clattered flying kites and staysails: some
Sang out in quick, high calls: the fair-leads skirled,
And from the south-west came the end of the world.
"Caught in her ball-dress," said the Bosun, hauling"Lee-ay, lee-ay!" quick, high, came the men's call;It was all wallop of sails and startled calling."Let fly!" "Let go!" "Clew up!" and "Let go all!""Now up and make them fast!" "Here, give us a haul!""Now up and stow them! Quick! By God! we're done!"The blackness crunched all memory of the sun.
"Caught in her ball-dress," said the Bosun, hauling
"Lee-ay, lee-ay!" quick, high, came the men's call;
It was all wallop of sails and startled calling.
"Let fly!" "Let go!" "Clew up!" and "Let go all!"
"Now up and make them fast!" "Here, give us a haul!"
"Now up and stow them! Quick! By God! we're done!"
The blackness crunched all memory of the sun.
"Up!" said the Mate. "Mizen top-gallants. Hurry!"The Dauber ran, the others ran, the sailsSlatted and shook; out of the black a flurryWhirled in fine lines, tattering the edge to trails.Painting and art and England were old talesTold in some other life to that pale man,Who struggled with white fear and gulped and ran.
"Up!" said the Mate. "Mizen top-gallants. Hurry!"
The Dauber ran, the others ran, the sails
Slatted and shook; out of the black a flurry
Whirled in fine lines, tattering the edge to trails.
Painting and art and England were old tales
Told in some other life to that pale man,
Who struggled with white fear and gulped and ran.
He struck a ringbolt in his haste and fell--Rose, sick with pain, half-lamed in his left knee;He reached the shrouds where clambering men pell-mellHustled each other up and cursed him; heHurried aloft with them: then from the seaCame a cold, sudden breath that made the hairStiff on the neck, as though Death whispered there.
He struck a ringbolt in his haste and fell--
Rose, sick with pain, half-lamed in his left knee;
He reached the shrouds where clambering men pell-mell
Hustled each other up and cursed him; he
Hurried aloft with them: then from the sea
Came a cold, sudden breath that made the hair
Stiff on the neck, as though Death whispered there.
A man below him punched him in the side."Get up, you Dauber, or let me get past."He saw the belly of the skysail skied,Gulped, and clutched tight, and tried to go more fast.Sometimes he missed his ratline and was grassed,Scraped his shin raw against the rigid line.The clamberers reached the futtock-shrouds' incline.
A man below him punched him in the side.
"Get up, you Dauber, or let me get past."
He saw the belly of the skysail skied,
Gulped, and clutched tight, and tried to go more fast.
Sometimes he missed his ratline and was grassed,
Scraped his shin raw against the rigid line.
The clamberers reached the futtock-shrouds' incline.
Cursing they came; one, kicking out behind,Kicked Dauber in the mouth, and one belowPunched at his calves; the futtock-shrouds inclinedIt was a perilous path for one to go."Up, Dauber, up!" A curse followed a blow.He reached the top and gasped, then on, then on.And one voice yelled "Let go!" and one "All gone!"
Cursing they came; one, kicking out behind,
Kicked Dauber in the mouth, and one below
Punched at his calves; the futtock-shrouds inclined
It was a perilous path for one to go.
"Up, Dauber, up!" A curse followed a blow.
He reached the top and gasped, then on, then on.
And one voice yelled "Let go!" and one "All gone!"
Fierce clamberers, some in oilskins, some in rags,Hustling and hurrying up, up the steep stairs.Before the windless sails were blown to flags,And whirled like dirty birds athwart great airs,Ten men in all, to get this mast of theirsSnugged to the gale in time. "Up! Damn you, run!"The mizen topmast head was safely won.
Fierce clamberers, some in oilskins, some in rags,
Hustling and hurrying up, up the steep stairs.
Before the windless sails were blown to flags,
And whirled like dirty birds athwart great airs,
Ten men in all, to get this mast of theirs
Snugged to the gale in time. "Up! Damn you, run!"
The mizen topmast head was safely won.
"Lay out!" the Bosun yelled. The Dauber laidOut on the yard, gripping the yard, and feelingSick at the mighty space of air displayedBelow his feet, where mewing birds were wheeling.A giddy fear was on him; he was reeling.He bit his lip half through, clutching the jack.A cold sweat glued the shirt upon his back.
"Lay out!" the Bosun yelled. The Dauber laid
Out on the yard, gripping the yard, and feeling
Sick at the mighty space of air displayed
Below his feet, where mewing birds were wheeling.
A giddy fear was on him; he was reeling.
He bit his lip half through, clutching the jack.
A cold sweat glued the shirt upon his back.
The yard was shaking, for a brace was loose.He felt that he would fall; he clutched, he bent,Clammy with natural terror to the shoesWhile idiotic promptings came and went.Snow fluttered on a wind-flaw and was spent;He saw the water darken. Someone yelled,"Frap it; don't stay to furl! Hold on!" He held.
The yard was shaking, for a brace was loose.
He felt that he would fall; he clutched, he bent,
Clammy with natural terror to the shoes
While idiotic promptings came and went.
Snow fluttered on a wind-flaw and was spent;
He saw the water darken. Someone yelled,
"Frap it; don't stay to furl! Hold on!" He held.
Darkness came down--half darkness--in a whirl;The sky went out, the waters disappeared.He felt a shocking pressure of blowing hurlThe ship upon her side. The darkness spearedAt her with wind; she staggered, she careered,Then down she lay. The Dauber felt her go;He saw his yard tilt downwards. Then the snow
Darkness came down--half darkness--in a whirl;
The sky went out, the waters disappeared.
He felt a shocking pressure of blowing hurl
The ship upon her side. The darkness speared
At her with wind; she staggered, she careered,
Then down she lay. The Dauber felt her go;
He saw his yard tilt downwards. Then the snow
Whirled all about--dense, multitudinous, cold--Mixed with the wind's one devilish thrust and shriek,Which whiffled out men's tears, deafened, took hold,Flattening the flying drift against the cheek.The yards buckled and bent, man could not speak.The ship lay on her broadside; the wind's soundHad devilish malice at having got her downed.
Whirled all about--dense, multitudinous, cold--
Mixed with the wind's one devilish thrust and shriek,
Which whiffled out men's tears, deafened, took hold,
Flattening the flying drift against the cheek.
The yards buckled and bent, man could not speak.
The ship lay on her broadside; the wind's sound
Had devilish malice at having got her downed.
* * * * *
How long the gale had blown he could not tell,Only the world had changed, his life had died.A moment now was everlasting hell.Nature an onslaught from the weather side,A withering rush of death, a frost that cried,Shrieked, till he withered at the heart; a hailPlastered his oilskins with an icy mail.
How long the gale had blown he could not tell,
Only the world had changed, his life had died.
A moment now was everlasting hell.
Nature an onslaught from the weather side,
A withering rush of death, a frost that cried,
Shrieked, till he withered at the heart; a hail
Plastered his oilskins with an icy mail.
"Cut!" yelled his mate. He looked--the sail was gone,Blown into rags in the first furious squall;The tatters drummed the devil's tattoo. OnThe buckling yard a block thumped like a mall.The ship lay--the sea smote her, the wind's bawlCame, "loo, loo, loo!" The devil cried his houndsOn to the poor spent stag strayed in his bounds.
"Cut!" yelled his mate. He looked--the sail was gone,
Blown into rags in the first furious squall;
The tatters drummed the devil's tattoo. On
The buckling yard a block thumped like a mall.
The ship lay--the sea smote her, the wind's bawl
Came, "loo, loo, loo!" The devil cried his hounds
On to the poor spent stag strayed in his bounds.
"Cut! Ease her!" yelled his mate; the Dauber heard.His mate wormed up the tilted yard and slashed,A rag of canvas skimmed like a darting bird.The snow whirled, the ship bowed to it, the gear lashed,The sea-tops were cut off and flung down smashed;Tatters of shouts were flung, the rags of yells--And clang, clang, clang, below beat the two bells.
"Cut! Ease her!" yelled his mate; the Dauber heard.
His mate wormed up the tilted yard and slashed,
A rag of canvas skimmed like a darting bird.
The snow whirled, the ship bowed to it, the gear lashed,
The sea-tops were cut off and flung down smashed;
Tatters of shouts were flung, the rags of yells--
And clang, clang, clang, below beat the two bells.
"O God!" the Dauber moaned. A roaring rang,Blasting the royals like a cannonade;The backstays parted with a cracking clang,The upper spars were snapped like twigs decayed--Snapped at their heels, their jagged splinters splayed,Like white and ghastly hair erect with fear.The Mate yelled, "Gone, by God, and pitched them clear!"
"O God!" the Dauber moaned. A roaring rang,
Blasting the royals like a cannonade;
The backstays parted with a cracking clang,
The upper spars were snapped like twigs decayed--
Snapped at their heels, their jagged splinters splayed,
Like white and ghastly hair erect with fear.
The Mate yelled, "Gone, by God, and pitched them clear!"
"Up!" yelled the Bosun; "up and clear the wreck!"The Dauber followed where he led: belowHe caught one giddy glimpsing of the deckFilled with white water, as though heaped with snow.He saw the streamers of the rigging blowStraight out like pennons from the splintered mast,Then, all sense dimmed, all was an icy blast
"Up!" yelled the Bosun; "up and clear the wreck!"
The Dauber followed where he led: below
He caught one giddy glimpsing of the deck
Filled with white water, as though heaped with snow.
He saw the streamers of the rigging blow
Straight out like pennons from the splintered mast,
Then, all sense dimmed, all was an icy blast
Roaring from nether hell and filled with ice,Roaring and crashing on the jerking stage,An utter bridle given to utter vice,Limitless power mad with endless rageWithering the soul; a minute seemed an age.He clutched and hacked at ropes, at rags of sail,Thinking that comfort was a fairy-tale
Roaring from nether hell and filled with ice,
Roaring and crashing on the jerking stage,
An utter bridle given to utter vice,
Limitless power mad with endless rage
Withering the soul; a minute seemed an age.
He clutched and hacked at ropes, at rags of sail,
Thinking that comfort was a fairy-tale
Told long ago--long, long ago--long sinceHeard of in other lives--imagined, dreamed--There where the basest beggar was a princeTo him in torment where the tempest screamed,Comfort and warmth and ease no longer seemedThings that a man could know: soul, body, brain,Knew nothing but the wind, the cold, the pain.
Told long ago--long, long ago--long since
Heard of in other lives--imagined, dreamed--
There where the basest beggar was a prince
To him in torment where the tempest screamed,
Comfort and warmth and ease no longer seemed
Things that a man could know: soul, body, brain,
Knew nothing but the wind, the cold, the pain.
"Leave that!" the Bosun shouted; "Crojick save!"The splitting crojick, not yet gone to rags,Thundered below, beating till something gave,Bellying between its buntlines into bags.Some birds were blown past, shrieking: dark, like shags,Their backs seemed, looking down. "Leu, leu!" they cried.The ship lay, the seas thumped her; she had died.
"Leave that!" the Bosun shouted; "Crojick save!"
The splitting crojick, not yet gone to rags,
Thundered below, beating till something gave,
Bellying between its buntlines into bags.
Some birds were blown past, shrieking: dark, like shags,
Their backs seemed, looking down. "Leu, leu!" they cried.
The ship lay, the seas thumped her; she had died.
They reached the crojick yard, which buckled, buckledLike a thin whalebone to the topsail's strain.They laid upon the yard and heaved and knuckled,Pounding the sail, which jangled and leapt again.It was quite hard with ice, its rope like chain,Its strength like seven devils; it shook the mast.They cursed and toiled and froze: a long time passed.
They reached the crojick yard, which buckled, buckled
Like a thin whalebone to the topsail's strain.
They laid upon the yard and heaved and knuckled,
Pounding the sail, which jangled and leapt again.
It was quite hard with ice, its rope like chain,
Its strength like seven devils; it shook the mast.
They cursed and toiled and froze: a long time passed.