II
From the blue pall of heaven spread out on high
Thousands of stars look down like tender eyes
Of lovely women—bright, and large, and full,
Full of desire and strange intelligence.
As they have done for æons, they regard
The blue sea stretching miles and miles away,
Covered with purple vapours, lit by starts
With strange phosphoric gleams. Murmur the waves
Voluptuously around the gallant ship.
No sail floats on its towering masts. It seems
Despoiled of all its rigging and its gear.
But lanterns shine upon the glancing deck
Where joyful music summons to the dance.
The pilot plays the violin, the cook
Breathes on the flute, a sailor strikes the drum,
And Van der Smissen gives the trumpet voice.
About a hundred men and women dark
Utter wild cries of joy, and leap and whirl
In Bacchanal frenzy. At each turn
Their chains resound in cadence to their steps.
They beat the creaking planks beneath their feet
Like folk gone mad, and many an ebon nymph
Twines with her arms voluptuously the form
Of some companion stalwart yet though gaunt.
But ever and anon across the noise
Tumultuous, a low, low sob resounds.
The garde-chiourme, the master of the bands,
Is master of the ceremonies here,
And with the lash by fits he stimulates
The dancers faint, and urges them to joy.
And dideldumdei! And schnedderedeng!
The tumult from the waves' dark depths attracts
