  L Loosen my arms! leave me one poor hand free, That I may shut one moment from my sight The dreadful heaving of the shuddering sea! For as it creeps back slowly from my feet, Rise from its inky depths swift-coming waves Big with the terrible and nameless thing That soon along the shrinking sands will crawl To wrap me in its hideous embrace. I will not struggle! leave me but one hand To shield the poor eyes that refuse to close; For stretched and wide the fascinated lids Deny their office, and I needs must look! What have I done, that these fair limbs of mine, (Nay, nay; I meant not fair; the gods forbid That I should boast!) but young and piteous And tender with soft flesh—O mother, take Your proud words back! O nymphs, be pitiful! The green waves part, and poisonous is the air! Red the fangs glitter! save me, O ye gods! Nay, what is this that wraps my shuddering limbs With sudden coolness?—Can it be that now The merciless tall cliff which all day long Refused its wonted shadow to protect My burning body from the dazzling sun, Relents, and spreads its gentle shade around To calm my reeling senses? Nay, for more It seems to me like white o’ershadowing wings, Circling above my head. Alas! so dim My poor eyes are with tears, I cannot see What this may be so near me; yet it seems Like some young, gallant knight. Alack, good sir, If thou art come to free my quivering limbs, Know that against the gods contend in vain The bravest knights. And yet how like a god Himself he stands! See how he spurns the ground, Poised with sustaining wings upon the air, And deals the monster a sharp, sudden blow That sends him reeling from the trembling shore! Shattered, I hear the chains fall to my feet; Yet much I fear another gentler fate Fetters my heart anew. O valiant knight, If in thy sight this tearful face was fair,— (Fair dare I call it now; since thou art near To shield me ever from the envious hate Of those less fair!) if worth it seemed to thee The dreadful daring of the doubtful fight, Surely that best should be thy dear reward Which prompted thee to struggle; all is thine! The dim eyes, dull with weeping bitter tears, Shall brighten at the sound of thy strong voice; The frail hands, red with struggling to be free, Once more shall turn to lilies in thy clasp; Rose-red for thee shall flush with happiness The poor, pale cheeks, still white with sickening fear; The tired feet sustained and strong shall grow, Walking beside thee; nay, dear love, not yet; For still they tremble, still I seem to need Thy firm supporting arm around me thrown. Fold me then, dearest, in thy close embrace; Bear me across the treacherous, yielding sands, To that far country which must needs be fair, Since thou hast followed from its chivalry, |
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