Classic Poem

" Then came the calm — we called it so —
But the skipper knew, as now we know,
That it was only the hungry Storm,
Crouching back with his awful form,
The better that he might spring and light
Down on the unsuspecting night!

" The sail was furled, — the hatch made fast, —
And the friar and I sat close to the mast.
Then came the dark and the roaring gale,
And we sailed as an autumn leaf might sail,
Blown by a loud-tornado gust —
And the spray was like a blinding dust.

" Then to the shivering mast we clung
Still closer — while the friar's tongue
Over his paternosters ran
As only a pious friar's can;
And my trembling lips, again and again,
Strove vainly to respond " amen."

" The hard old skipper laughed outright
To behold us clinging to the mast in fright.
Till suddenly he cried — " land! ho!"
And we saw in the west the crimson glow
Of a lighthouse — or what we deemed was so!

" Fiercer and fiercer the loud gale came,
Driving us onward towards the flame.
The skipper strove to change our course,
Pressing the helm with giant force: —
Battling a moment 'twixt rudder and gale,
The light ark shuddered like a veering sail —
Then a crash! — and a curse! — o'er the stern of the bark
The helm and the helmsman plunged into the dark!
And the shallop leaped forth to the black unknown,
With the joy of a steed when his rider is thrown!
Spurning the waves and the wind's control,
On, on it sped to its direful goal!
I hid my face in the old man's breast:
And then — and then — you know the rest!

" Oh, Roland, a fearful dream was mine —
Those swooning moments among the brine!
I saw thee stand in a midnight tower,
And a beautiful fiend had thee in her power.
I saw her pale lips pressed to thine;
I saw ye kneel at an altar-shrine;
And then I heard your mingled prayer,
That, like a raven croaking in air,
Hung black and ominous, but did not soar!
And then you named her by my name,
And that hot word clung to my heart like flame
Slung from a torch! And I heard no more!
" Oh, Roland, wherefore tremble so?
Or wherefore stoops your brow so low?
Oh, dreary hour! oh, wo is me!
If this terrible dream should prove to be
The shadow of mad reality!
Look up, and assure me it is not so —
Or let me dic with the sudden blow
Of the horrible truth! At thy command
Death shall strike with most welcome hand.

" Oh, wo is me! Oh, wo is me!
Would I were lying under the sea!
Or would that dear old friend were here
Who sleeps so low on his briny bier,
To mount with thee to that sinful place
To meet the demon face to face;
With exorcism and with prayer
To scourge her into the utmost air!