III.

So past a weary time; each throat

Was parch'd, and glaz'd each eye,

When, looking westward, I beheld

A something in the sky.

At first it seem'd a little speck

And then it seem'd a mist:

It mov'd and mov'd, and took at last

A certain shape, I wist.

A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist!

And still it near'd and near'd;

And, as if it dodg'd a water-sprite,

It plung'd and tack'd and veer'd.

With throat unslack'd, with black lips bak'd

We could nor laugh nor wail;

Thro’ utter drouth all dumb we stood

Till I bit my arm and suck'd the blood,

And cry'd, A sail! a sail!

With throat unslack'd, with black lips bak'd

Agape they heard me call:

Gramercy! they for joy did grin

And all at once their breath drew in

As they were drinking all.

See! See! ( I cry'd ) she tacks no more!

Hither to work us weal

Without a breeze, without a tide

She steddies with upright keel!

The western wave was all a flame,

The day was well nigh done!

Almost upon the western wave

Rested the broad bright Sun;

When that strange shape drove suddenly

Betwixt us and the Sun.

And strait the Sun was fleck'd with bars

( Heaven's mother send us grace )

As if thro’ a dungeon grate he peer'd

With broad and burning face.

Alas! ( thought I, and my heart beat loud )

How fast she nears and nears!

Are those her Sails that glance in the Sun

Like restless gossameres?

Are those her Ribs, thro’ which the Sun

Did peer, as thro’ a grate?

And are those two all, all her crew.

That Woman, and her Mate?

His bones were black with many a crack,

All black and bare, I ween;

Jet-black and bare, save where with rust

Of mouldy damps and charnel crust

They were patch'd with purple and green.

Her lips were red, her looks were free,

Her locks were yellow as gold:

Her skin was as white as leprosy,

And she was far liker Death than he;

Her flesh made the still air cold.

The naked Hulk alongside came

And the Twain were playing dice;

“The Game is done! I've won, I've won!”

Quoth she, and whistled thrice.

A gust of wind sterte up behind

And whistled thro’ his bones;

Thro’ the holes of his eyes and the hole of his mouth

Half-whistles and half-groans.

With never a whisper in the Sea

Off darts the Spectre-ship;

While clombe above the Eastern bar

The horned Moon, with one bright Star

Almost between the tips.

One after one by the horned Moon

( Listen, O Stranger! to me )

Each turn'd his face with a ghastly pang

And curs'd me with his ee.

Four times fifty living men,

With never a sigh or groan,

With heavy thump, a lifeless lump

They dropp'd down one by one.

Their souls did from their bodies fly,—

They fled to bliss or woe;

And every soul it pass'd me by,

Like, the whiz of my Cross-bow.