III.

One of the worn despairing ring who round
Their chief upon the mizen-top had found
A dizzy shelter in the pelting spray,
Had Ranolf borne that dreadful day;
Down with the headlong mast was thrown;
And as his consciousness flashed back again
(A moment in the act of falling gone)
He found himself almost alone
With desperate clutch still clinging to the top
page 85 Beneath its lee that fenced the lashing rain
Of breakers off—else all had been in vain.
'Mid tangled rigging, to the vessel's side
With violent efforts he contrived to glide;
Then, by the chains protected, in the shade
Of the green flying roof the wild waves made,
In that dark hollow's gloom a hideous space,
Steadying his thoughts and strength he clung,
While in his ears the roaring ceaseless race,
The driving avalanche that knew no stop,
With stunning dread reverberation rung.
Beneath him frequent timbers swung
In fragments to and fro; so, quick as thought,
He seized a lucky chance to drop
Into the weltering foam, and caught
A floating piece of plank, and kept
Half hopeless his determined hold,
While it and he like lightning swept
To where the waves less wildly rolled:
A larger fragment next he gained;
Then, with what failing strength remained,
Straight towards that dear-bought harbour strained.

Scarce half a mile the favouring tide
Had forged his drifting plank ahead,
When in the gathering gloom he spied
A big canoe with bulwarks red;
And heard the beat of paddles plied
With strong recurrence—right good will.
Half dead with cramp, fatigue, and chill,
He called; the paddles all were still
He called again; a cheery strain
Gave answer as the rowers sung;
And forth the bounding vessel sprung
page 86 And shot his wayward plank beside
With swirling swiftness as a coot
Or wild duck will alighting shoot—
Ere it can stay its headlong way—
Along the ruffled water. Then
An eager crowd of deep-voiced men,
Dark-visaged, wild—in unknown tongue,
Their hoarse congratulations cried,
As safe on board the backed canoe
With rapid talk and much ado,
That kindly crew the Stranger drew,
With fiercer chaunt they pulled ashore;
There from his clothes the water wrung,
Lit fires, brought food, and on the floor
His bed of fresh-pulled ferns, o'erlajd
With clean elastic mattings, made;
Tried all that care or kindness can
Of genial Earth or generous Man—
Though one half desert, one half savage—
To smoothe and smile away the pangs
Of grief and bodily pain and dread
Of horrible Ocean's wreck and ravage,
Whose shadow like a nightmare hangs
O'er one who lives, of many dead,
Just rescued from her ruthless fangs.