CANTO THE THIRD

A month went by. We were hoisting sail!

We had lost all hope of Bill;

Though, laugh as you may at a seaman's tale,

He was fast in his honey-comb still!

And often he thinks of the chaplain's word

In the days he shall see no more,—

How the Sweet, indeed, of the Sour hath need;

And the Sea, likewise, of the Shore.

The chaplain's word of the Air and a Bird;

Of the Sea, likewise, and the Shore!

“O, had I the wings of a dove, I would fly

To a heaven, of aloes and gall!

I have honeyed,” he yammers, “my nose and mine eye,

And the bees cannot sting me at all!

And it's O, for the sting of a little brown bee,

Or to blister my hands on a rope,

Or to buffet a thundering broad-side sea

On a deck like a mountain-slope!”

With her mast snapt short, and a list to port

And a deck like a mountain-slope.

But alas, and he thinks of the chaplain's voice

When that roar from the woods out-break —

R-r-re-joice! R-r-re-joice! “Now, wherefore rejoice

In the music a bear could make?

‘ Tis a judgment, maybe, that I stick in this tree;

Yet in this I out-argued him fair!

Though I live, though I die, in this honey-comb pie,

By Pope Joan, there's no sense in a bear!”

Notes in a nightingale, plums in a pie,

By'r Lakin, no Sense in a Bear!

He knew not our anchor was heaved from the mud:

He was growling it over again,

When — a strange sound suddenly froze his blood,

And curdled his big slow brain!—

A marvellous sound, as of great steel claws

Gripping the bark of his tree,

Softly ascended! Like lightning ended

His honey-comb reverie!

The honey-comb quivered! The little leaves shivered!

Something was climbing the tree!

Something that breathed like a fat sea-cook,

Or a pirate of fourteen ton!

But it clomb like a cat ( tho’ the whole tree shook )

Stealthily tow'rds the sun,

Till, as Black Bill gapes at the little blue ring

Overhead, which he calls the sky,

It is clean blotted out by a monstrous Thing

Which — hath larded its nose and its eye.

O, well for thee, Bill, that this monstrous Thing

Hath blinkered its little red eye.

Still as a mouse lies Bill with his face

Low down in the dark sweet gold,

While this monster turns round in the leaf-fringed space!

Then — taking a good firm hold,

As the skipper descending the cabin-stair,

Tail-first with a vast slow tread,

Solemnly, softly, cometh this Bear

Straight down o'er the Bo'sun' s head.

Solemnly — slowly — cometh this Bear,

Tail-first o'er the Bo'sun' s head.

Nearer — nearer — then all Bill's breath

Out-bursts in one leap and yell!

And this Bear thinks, “Now am I gripped from beneath

By a roaring devil from hell!”

And madly Bill clutches his brown bow-legs,

And madly this Bear doth hale,

With his little red eyes fear-mad for the skies

And Bill's teeth fast in his tail!

Small wonder a Bear should quail!

To have larded his nose, to have greased his eyes,

And be stung at the last in his tail.

Pull, Bo'sun! Pull, Bear! In the hot sweet gloom,

Pull Bruin, pull Bill, for the skies!

Pull — out of their gold with a bombard's boom

Come Black Bill's honeyed thighs!

Pull! Up! Up! Up! with a scuffle and scramble,

To that little blue ring of bliss,

This Bear doth go with our Bo'sun in tow

Stinging his tail, I wis.

And this Bear thinks — “Many great bees I know,

But there never was Bee like this!”

All in the gorgeous death of day

We had slipped from our emerald creek,

And our Cloud i’ the Sun was careening away

With the old gay flag at the peak,

When, suddenly, out of the purple wood,

Breast-high thro’ the lilies there danced

A tall lean figure, black as a nigger,

That shouted and waved and pranced!

A gold-greased figure, but black as a nigger,

Waving his shirt as he pranced!

“‘ Tis Hylas!‘ Tis Hylas!” our chaplain flutes,

And our skipper he looses a shout!

“‘ Tis Bill! Black Bill, in his old sea-boots!

Stand by to bring her about!

Har-r-rd a-starboard!” And round we came,

With a lurch and a dip and a roll,

And a banging boom thro’ the rose-red gloom

For our old Black Bo'sun' s soul!

Alive! Not dead! Tho’ behind his head

He'd a seraphin's aureole!

And our chaplain he sniffs, as Bill finished his tale,

( With the honey still scenting his hair! )

O'er a plate of salt beef and a mug of old ale —

“By Pope Joan, there's no sense in a bear!”

And we laughed, but our Bo'sun he solemnly growls

— “Till the sails of yon heavens be furled,

It taketh — now, mark!— all the beasts in the Ark,

Teeth and claws, too, to make a good world!”

Till the great — blue — sails — be — furled,

It taketh — now, mark!— all the beasts in the Ark,

Teeth and claws, too, to make a good world!

“Sack! Sack! Canary! Malmsey! Muscadel!” —

As the last canto ceased, the Mermaid Inn

Chorussed. I flew from laughing voice to voice;

But, over all the hubbub, rose the drone

Of Francis Bacon,— “Now, this Muscovy

Is a cold clime, not favourable to bees

( Or love, which is a weakness of the south )

As well might be supposed. Yet, as hot lands

Gender hot fruits and odoriferous spice,

In this case we may think that honey and flowers

Are comparable with the light airs of May

And a more temperate region. Also we see,

As Pliny saith, this honey being a swette

Of heaven, a certain spettle of the stars,

Which, gathering unclean vapours as it falls,

Hangs as a fat dew on the boughs, the bees

Obtain it partly thus, and afterwards

Corrupt it in their stomachs, and at last

Expel it through their mouths and harvest it

In hives; yet, of its heavenly source it keeps

A great part. Thus, by various principles

Of natural philosophy we observe —”

And, as he leaned to Drayton, droning thus,

I saw a light gleam of celestial mirth

Flit o'er the face of Shakespeare — scarce a smile —

A swift irradiation from within

As of a cloud that softly veils the sun.