XX.

Through the approaching darkness of the wood
A human figure broke the solitude,
Fantastically, it may be, array'd,
A seaman in a savage masquerade;
Such as appears to rise out from the deep
When o'er the line the merry vessels sweep,
And the rough saturnalia of the tar
Flock o'er the deck, in Neptune's borrow'd car,
And, pleased, the god of ocean sees his name
Revive once more, though but in mimic game
Of his true sons, who riot in the breeze
Undreamt of in his native Cyclades.
Still the old god delights, from out the main,
To snatch some glimpses of his ancient reign.
Our sailor's jacket, though in ragged trim,
His constant pipe, which never yet burn'd
dim,

His foremast air, and somewhat rolling gait,
Like his dear vessel, spoke his former state;
But then a sort of kerchief round his head,
Not over tightly bound, or nicely spread;
And 'stead of trousers (ah! too early torn!
For even the mildest woods will have their
thorn),

A curious sort of somewhat scanty mat
Now served for inexpressibles and hat;
His naked feet and neck, and sunburnt face,
Perchance might suit alike with either race,
His arms were all his own, our Europe's growth,
Which two worlds bless for civilizing both;
The musket swung behind his shoulders broad,
And somewhat stoop'd by his marine abode,
But brawny as the boar's; and hung beneath,
His cutlass droop'd, unconscious of a sheath,
Or lost or worn away; his pistols were
Link'd to his belt, a matrimonial pair-
(Let not this metaphor appear a scoff,
Though one miss'd fire, the other would go
off):

These, with a bayonet, not so free from rust
As when the arm-chest held its brighter trust,
Completed his accoutrements, as Night
Survey'd him in his garb heteroclite.

1.

ΧΧΙ.

159

"What cheer, Ben Bunting?" cried (when in full view

Our new acquaintance) Torquil. "Aught of

new?"

"Ey, ey!" quoth Ben, "not new, but news

enow;

A strange sail in the offing."-"Sail! and how? What! could you make her out? It cannot be; I've seen no rag of canvas on the sea.' "Belike," said Ben, "you might not from the bay,

But from the bluff-head, where I watch'd today,

I saw her in the doldrums; for the wind Was light and baffling."-"When the sun declined

Where lay she? had she anchor'd?"-"No, but still

She bore down on us, till the wind grew still.' "Her flag?"-"I had no glass: but fore and aft, Egad! she seem'd a wicked-looking craft.” "Arm'd?"—"I expect so;-sent on the look

out:

'Tis time, belike, to put our helm about." "About? Whate'er may have us now in chase, We'll make no running fight, for that were base; We will die at our quarters, like true men.' "Ey, ey! for that 'tis all the same to Ben." "Does Christian know this?"-"Ay; he has piped all hands

To quarters. They are furbishing the stands Of arms; and we have got some guns to bear, And scaled them. You are wanted."-"That's

but fair;

And if it were not, mine is not the soul
To leave my comrades helpless on the shoal.
My Neuha! ha! and must my fate pursue
Not me alone, but one so sweet and true!
But whatsoe'er betide, ah, Neuha! now
Unman me not; the hour will not allow
A tear; I'm thine whatever intervenes !"
Right," quoth Ben; "that will do for the

marines.

THE fight was o'er; the flashing through the gloom,

Which robes the cannon as he wings a tomb, Had ceased; and sulphury vapours upwards driven

Had left the earth, and but polluted heaven:
The rattling roar which rung in every volley
Had left the echoes to their melancholy;
No more they shriek'd their horror, boom for
boom:

The strife was done, the vanquish'd had their doom;

The mutineers were crush'd, dispersed, or ta'en, Or lived to deem the happiest were the slain. Few, few escaped, and these were hunted o'er The isle they loved beyond their native shore. No further home was theirs, it seem'd, on earth,

Once renegades to that which gave them birth; Track'd like wild beasts, like them they sought the wild,

As to a mother's bosom flies the child;
But vainly wolves and lions seek their den,
And still more vainly men escape from men.

"*

II.

Beneath a rock whose jutting base protrudes
Far over ocean in its fiercest moods,
When scaling his enormous crag the wave
Is hurl'd down headlong like the foremost brave,
And falls back on the foaming crowd behind,
Which fight beneath the banners of the wind,
But now at rest, a little remnant drew
Together, bleeding, thirsty, faint, and few;
But still their weapons in their hands, and still
With something of the pride of former will,
As men not all unused to meditate,
And strive much more than wonder at their fate.
Their present lot was what they had foreseen,
And dared as what was likely to have been:
Yet still the lingering hope, which deem'd their

lot

Not pardon'd, but unsought for or forgot,
Or trusted that, if sought, their distant caves
Might still be miss'd amidst the world of waves,
Had wean'd their thoughts in part from what
they saw

"That will do for the marines, but the sailors won't believe it," is an old saying.

And felt, the vengeance of their country's law.
Their sea-green isle, their guilt-won paradise,
No more could shield their virtue or their vice:
Their better feelings, if such were, were thrown
Back on themselves, their sins remain'd alone.
Proscribed even in their second country, they
Were lost; in vain the world before them lay;
All outlets seem'd secured. Their new allies
Had fought and bled in mutual sacrifice;
But what avail'd the club and spear, and arm
Of Hercules, against the sulphury charm,
The magic of the thunder, which destroy'd
The warrior ere his strength could be employ'd?
Dug, like a spreading pestilence, the grave
No less of human bravery than the brave!*
Their own scant numbers acted all the few
Against the many oft will dare and do;
But though the choice seems native to die free,
Even Greece can boast but one Thermopyla,
Till now, when she has forged her broken chain
Back to a sword, and dies and lives again!

Beside the jutting rock the few appear'd,
Like the last remnant of the red-deer's herd;
Their eyes were feverish, and their aspect worn,
But still the hunter's blood was on their horn,
A little stream came tumbling from the height,
And straggling into ocean as it might,
Its bounding crystal frolick'd in the ray,
And gush'd from cliff to crag with saltless spray;
Close on the wild, wide ocean, yet as pure
And fresh as innocence, and more secure,
Its silver torrent glitter'd o'er the deep,
As the shy chamois' eye o'erlooks the steep,
While far below the vast and sullen swell
Of ocean's Alpine azure rose and fell.
To this young spring they rush'd,—all feelings
first

Absorb'd in passion's and in nature's thirst,-
Drank as they do who drink their last, and threw
Their arms aside to revel in its dew:
Cool'd their scorch'd throats, and wash'd the
gory stains

From wounds whose only bandage might be chains.

Then, when their drought was quench'd, look'd sadly round,

As wondering how so many still were found
Alive and fetterless :-but silent all,
Each sought his fellow's eyes, as if to call
On him for language which his lips denied,
As though their voices with their cause had died.

IV.

Stern, and aloof a little from the rest,
Stood Christian, with his arms across his chest.
The ruddy, reckless, dauntless hue once spread
Along his cheek was livid now as lead;
His light brown locks, so graceful in their flow,
Now rose like startled vipers o'er his brow.
Still as a statue, with his lips comprest
To stifle even the breath within his breast,
Fast by the rock, all menacing, but mute,

* Archidamus, king of Sparta, and son of Agesilaus, when he saw a machine invented for the casting of stones and darts, exclaimed that it was the " grave of valour." The same story has been told of some knights on the first application of gunpowder; but the original anecdote is in Plutarch.

He stood; and, save a slight beat of his foot,
Which deepen'd now and then the sandy dint
Beneath his heel, his form seem'd turn'd to flint.
Some paces further Torquil lean'd his head
Against a bank, and spoke not, but he bled,-
Not mortally:-his worst wound was within;
His brow was pale, his blue eyes sunken in,
And blood-drops, sprinkled o'er his yellow hair,
Showed that his faintness came not from despair
But nature's ebb. Beside him was another,
Rough as a bear, but willing as a brother,-
Ben Bunting, who essay'd to wash, and wipe,
And bind his wound-then calmly lit his pipe,
A trophy which survived a hundred fights,
A beacon which had cheer'd ten thousand
nights.

The fourth and last of this deserted group Walk'd up and down-at times would stand, then stoop

To pick a pebble up-then let it drop-
Then hurry as in haste-then quickly stop-
Then cast his eyes on his companions then
Half whistle half a tune, and pause again--
And then his former movements would redouble,
With something between carelessness and
trouble.

To scarce five minutes past before his eyes;
This is a long description, but applies
But yet what minutes! Moments like to these
Rend men's lives into immortalities.

V.

At length Jack Skyscrape, a mercurial man,
Who flutter'd over all things like a fan,
More brave than firm, and more disposed to dare
And die at once than wrestle with despair,
Exclaim'd, "G-d damn!"-those syllables
intense,-

Nucleus of England's native eloquence,
As the Turk's "Allah!" or the Roman's more
Pagan "Proh Jupiter!" was wont of yore
To give their first impressions such a vent,
By way of echo to embarrassment.
Jack was embarrass'd-never hero more,
And as he knew not what to say, he swore:
Nor swore in vain; the long congenial sound
Revived Ben Bunting from his pipe profound;
He drew it from his mouth, and look'd full wise,
But merely added to the oath his eyes;
Thus rendering the imperfect phrase complete,
A peroration I need not repeat.

VI.

But Christian of an higher order, stood
Like an extinct volcano in his mood;
Silent, and sad, and savage,-with the trace
Of passion reeking from his clouded face;
Till lifting up again his sombre eye,
It glanced on Torquil, who lean'd faintly by.
"And is it thus?" he cried, "unhappy boy!
And thee, too, thee-my madness must destroy."
He said, and strode to where young Torquil
stood,

Yet dabbled with his lately-flowing blood;
Seized his hand wistfully, but did not press,
And shrunk as fearful of his own caress;
Inquired into his state; and when he heard
The wound was slighter than he deem'd or
fear'd

A moment's brightness pass'd along his brow, As much as such a moment would allow. "Yes," he exclaim'd, "we're taken in the toil,

The rest upon herself for Torquil's sake.
They parted with this added aid; afar
The proa darted like a shooting star,
And gain'd on the pursuers, who now steer'd
Right on the rock which she and Torquil near'd,
They pull'd; her arm, though delicate, was free
And firm as ever grappled with the sea,
And yielded scarce to Torquil's manlier strength.
The prow now almost lay within its length
Of the crag's steep, inexorable face,
With nought but soundless waters for its base;
Within a hundred boats' length was the foe,
And now what refuge but their frail canoe?
This Torquil ask'd with half upbraiding eye,
Which said "Has Neuha brought me here to

die?

The boat's crew look'd amazed o'er sea and shore.

There was no landing on that precipice,
Steep, harsh, and slippery as a berg of ice.
They watch'd awhile to see him float again,
But not a trace rebubbled from the main :
The wave roll'd on, no ripple on its face,
Since their first plunge recall'd a single trace;
The little whirl which eddied, and slight foam,
That whiten'd o'er what seem'd their latest
home,

White as a sepulchre above the pair
Who left no marble (mournful as an heir)
The quiet proa wavering o'er the tide
Was all that told of Torquil and his bride;
And but for this alone the whole might seem
The vanish'd phantom of a scaman's dream.
They paused and search'd in vain, then pull'd
away;

Every superstition now forbade their stay.
Some said he had not plunged into the wave,
But vanish'd like a corpse-light from a grave;
Others, that something supernatural
Glared in his figure, more than mortal tall;
While all agreed that in his cheek and eye
There was a dead hue of eternity.
Still as their oars receded from the crag,
Round every weed a moment would they lag,

Young Neuha plunged into the deep, and he Follow'd: her track beneath her native sea Was as a native's of the element,

So smoothly, bravely, brilliantly she went,
Leaving a streak of light behind her heel,
Which struck and flash'd like an amphibious
steel.

Closely, and scarcely less expert to trace
Torquil, the nursling of the northern seas,
The depths where divers hold the pearl in chase,
Pursued her liquid steps with heart and ease.
Deep-deeper for an instant Neuha led
The way then upward soar'd-and as she
spread

Her arms, and flung the foam from off her locks, Laugh'd, and the sound was answer'd by the rocks,

They had gain'd a central realm of earth again,
But look'd for tree, and field, and sky, in vain.
Around she pointed to a spacious cave,
Whose only portal was the keyless wave,
(A hollow archway by the sun unseen,
Save through the billows' grassy veil of green,
In some transparent ocean holiday,
When all the finny people are at play,)
Wiped with her hair the brine from Torquil's
eyes,

And clapp'd her hands with joy at his surprise:
Led him to where the rock appear'd to jut,
And form a something like a triton's hut;
For all was darkness for a space, till day
Through clefts above let in a sober'd ray;
As in some old cathedral's glimmering aisle
The dusty monuments from light recoil,
Thus sadly in their refuge submarine
The vault drew half her shadow from the scene.