And lost their ships and crew to the south-west wind.
There too did roam the pilot Palinurus,
Who steering up from Libya by the stars
Had fallen from the stern a few days since
Deep in the wave. So girt with gloom stood he
The hero scarce could see–but seeing, he cried:–
"Thee, Palinurus, what relentless god
Tore from our love to drown thee in mid main!
Say, for Apollo never yet found false
Deceived me here, in mystic song foretelling
That safe across the waters thou shouldst come
To tread Italian soil. Is this kept promise?"
But he:—"Captain, the Tripod sang no lies
Nor was’t a god that Hung me to the waves,
But whilst I steered, the chance of a sharp shock
So wrenched the gear entrusted to my hands
That clinging fast I was swept overboard
Tiller and all. Witness, O passionate waves,
Less did I fear my peril than the ship’s
Which now dismantled and its pilot gone
Rode at the mercy of the bristling swell. We
Three winter nights across the infinite sea;
The strong South bore me, piling up the waves;
But the fourth morning from a billow’s crest,
I saw the cliffs of Italy and swam
Landwards slowly. For now was danger past
Had not a cruel folk come on with swords,
As weighted by my dripping clothes I clutched
A broken rock’s summit with crooked hand,
And deemed me–brutes–a prize. Sport of the waves
202
