Page:Collected poems of Flecker.djvu/238

 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