Chapter XIV: Part I

I’ll tell ye, if ye hearken now,
A thing that chanced to me--
It must be fifty years agone--
Upon the southern sea.

First-mate was I of the Nancy,
A tight ship and a sound;
We had made a prosperous voyage,
And then were homeward bound.

We were sailing on the Tropic seas,
Before the trade-wind’s power;
Day after day, without delay,
Full thirteen knots an hour.

The sea was as a glassy lake,
By a steady gale impressed;
There was nought for any man to do
But just what liked him best.

And yet the calm was wearisome;
The dull days idly sped;
And sometimes on a flute I played,
Or else a book I read.

And dallying thus one afternoon,
I stood upon the deck;
When far off, to the leeward,
I saw a faintish speck.

Whether ’twas rock, or fish, or cloud,
At first I did not know;
So I called unto a seaman,
That he might look also.

And as it neared, I saw for sure
That it must be a boat;
But my fellow swore it was not so,
But a large bamboo afloat.

We called a third unto us then,
That he the sight might see;
Then came a fourth, a fifth, a sixth;
But no two could agree.

“Nay, ’tis a little boat,” I said,
“And it roweth with an oar!”
But none of them could see it so,
All differing as before.

“It cometh on; I see it plain;
It is a boat!” I cried,
“A little boat o’erlaid with pearl,
And a little child to guide!”

And sure enough, a boat it was,
And worked with an oar;
But such a boat as ’twas, no man
Had ever seen before.

Within in it sate a little child,
The fairest e’er was seen;
His robes were like the amethyst,
His mantle of sea-green.

No covering wore he on his head,
And the hair that on it grew
Showered down in thick and wavy locks
Of the sunniest golden hue.

The rudest man on board our ship
Blest God that sight to see;
For me I could do nought but weep,
Such power had it on me.

There sat he in his pretty boat,
Like an angel from the sky,
Regarding us in our great ship,
With wonder in his eye.

The little oar slid from his hand;
His sweet lips were apart;
Within my soul I felt his joy;
His wonder in my heart.

And as we tokened him to come,
His little boat he neared,
And smiled at all our friendly words,
Nor seemed the least afeared.

“Come hither a-board!” the captain said!
And without fear of ill,
He sprang into the lordly ship,
With frank and free good will.

He was no son of the merman;
No syren full of guile;
But a creature like the cherubim,
From some unknown-of isle.

And strange to tell, his pleasant speech
Was English, every word;
And yet such English, sweet and pure,
As his I never heard.

There were three, he said, who dwelt with him
Within a tamarind-grove;
His parents and his sister young,--
A family of love.

His father, he said, had made his boat
From out a large sea-shell;
“And what a wondrous tale,” said he,
“I shall this evening tell!”

His robes, he said, his mother had wove
From roots of an Indian-tree;
And he laughed at the clothes the seamen wore,
With the merriest mockery.

When the little child had stayed with us,
May-be an hour or so,
He smiled farewell to all on board,
And said that he would go.

“For I must be back again,” said he,
“For me they all will wait;
I must be back again,” quoth he,
“Or ever the day be late!”

“He shall not go!” the captain said;
“Haul up his boat and oar!
The pretty boy shall sail with us
To the famous English shore!

“Thou shalt with me, my pretty boy;
I’ll find thee a new mother;--
I’ve children three at home, and thou
To them shalt be a brother!”

“Nay, nay, I shall go back!” he said;
“For thee I do not know;--
I must be back again,” he cried,
“Before the sun be low!”
Then sprang unto the vessel’s side,
And made as he would go.

The captain was a strong, stern man;
None liked him overwell;
And to a seaman standing near,
Said he, with voice and look austere,
“Haul up yon cockle-shell!
And you, my boy, content you,
In this good ship to dwell!”

As one who gladly would believe
Some awful threat a joke,
So heard the child, with half a smile,
The words the captain spoke.

But when he saw them seize his boat,
And put his oar away,
The smile was gone, and o’er his face
Quick passed a pale dismay.

And then a passion seized his frame,
As if he were possessed;
He stamped his little feet in rage,
And smote upon his breast,

’Twas a wicked deed as e’er was done--
I longed to set him free;
And the impotence of his great grief
Was a grievous sight to me.

At length, when rage had spent itself
His lofty heart gave way,
And, falling on his pretty knees,
At the captain’s feet he lay.

“Oh take me back again!” he cried,
“Let me not tarry here,
And I’ll give thee sea-apples,
And honey rich and clear;

“And fetch thee heavy pearl-stones
From deep sea-caves below;
And red tree-gold and coral-tree,
If thou wilt let me go!

“Or if I must abide with thee,--
In thy great ship to dwell,
Let me but just go back again,
To bid them all farewell!”

And at the word “farewell” he wept,
As if his heart would break;
The very memory of his tears
Sore sad my heart doth make.

The captain’s self was almost moved
To hear his woful cry;
And there was not within the ship
One man whose eyes were dry.

When the captain saw the seamen’s grief,
An angry man was he,
And shut his heart against the child,
For our great sympathy.

Down from the deck he took him
To his cabin all alone:
We saw him not for many a day,
But only heard his moan.