How waxen-like his hands, Which nevermore may turn the glass The glass whose solemn sands And he has reaped his latest And none that scythe of his can wield 'Neath the dim, descending sun. At last they reach the Shadow-Land, The guardian ghost sweeps wailingly With a wild and clangorous din, The gates before the funeral train, Lo! 't is a temple! and around Tall ebony columns rise Up from the withering earth, and bear Where the tempest trembling sighs, 'Neath a lurid comet's glare, That over the mourners' plumed heads And on the Dead a lustre sheds From its crimson floating hair! The steadying sun heaved up as day drew on, And there grew a long swell of the sea. And, first in upper air, then under, everywhere, From the topmost towering sail The wind began to breathe more free. For a wild and bitter blast Was the master of that stormy day to be. "Ho! Hilloa! A sail!" was the top man's hail: "A sail, hull-down upon our lee!" The Admiral sought what she might be. Was it ship? Was it wreck? A far-off, far-off speck, Of a sudden we found upon our lee. On the round waters wide, floated no thing beside, But we and the stranger sail; And a hazy sky, that threatened storm, When the order came, to wear, Was remembered, ever after, in the tale. Across the long, slow swell That scarcely rose and fell, The wind began to blow out of the cloud; And scarce an hour was gone ere the gale was fairly on, And through our strained rigging howled aloud. Before the stormy wind, that was maddening behind, We gathered in our canvas farthest spread. And the welkin grew all black overhead. The stranger brought her old wind in her breast. Up came the ship from the far-off sea we. She grew to the eye, against the clouded sky, And eagerly her points and gear we guessed. As we made her out, at last, She was maimed in spar and mast And she hugged the easy breeze for rest. We could see the old wind fail We could see them lay their course with the wind: Still we neared and neared her fast, With the seas tumbling headlong behind. She had come out of some storm, and, in many a busy swarm, Her crew were refitting, as they might, That had left their ugly scars, As if the ship had come out of a fight. A strange old ship, with her poop built out. We saw no signal fly, and her men scarce lifted eye, But toiled at the work that was to do: We saw the old ship and her crew. The glories and the memories of other days agone Seemed clinging to the old ship, as in All that stormy night through, our ship was lying-to Whenever we could keep her to the wind; But late in the next day we gained a quiet bay, For the tempest had left us far behind. Went our anchors splashing down; Came playing at bo-peep With our canvas, hour by hour, in their fun. We leaned on boom or rail with many a lazy tale Of the work of the storm that had died; |