Classic Poem

Seaman.

How think of her, gone down, gone down!
How think of her decayed!
Or that the maker of that ship
Could let his creature fade!
More unbridled — unforgettable — was never creature made.

Gone by the board, those swinging spars
That seemed through storm to climb!
Sent down, like any cockle-shell
To tangle and to slime!

Did he that takes the narrow sounds
His monstrous hands between.
Whirl her among his crazy locks
Into an eddy green?

Was it fog-bound, on a foul coast,
With not enough sea-room,
Or clear of land that she was lost,
Where hard gales can blow home?

Was it ice-floe in the sheeted foam
Ambushed her? or some ledge
Of false lights — or uncharted reef —
Broke her back upon its edge?

Perhaps even she was seized at last
Off an island precipice
With weariness, like man's weariness,
Of everything that is,

And stranded so, till the fresh flood
That through the channel swings
Crumbled that side like a sea-cliff,
As one crumbles little things.

*****

Apollo.

Her end was none, my lad, of these!
But first, if you must know,
Mutiny of those friends of yours
In irons down below.

Seaman.

And how got you, Sir Merchantman,
This news — or bitter jest?

Apollo.

" Sir, my trade is bringing light to all
From the East unto the West.

Nay, he that built your famous boat
From the old coasts to fly
And bear you ever out and on
Was I, and none but I! "

With that the sailor clutch'd the board;
Wine spilt out of his glass
Dripp'd to the floor; but not a sound
From his parch'd mouth would pass.