Never since ship was set a-float
Have men seen so strange a boat:
Alive it is from deck to keel,
Having the gray gleam of steel;
Slippery as wave-wash'd wreck,
Or as a war-ship's bloody deck.
A Dolphin, lo, its huge back bending,
Safety to Arion lending
From the sailors of Sicily,
Covetous of his golden monie;
Money that as prize he had won
Before all Singers aneath the sun;
Playing and singing so famouslie,
Singing and playing so wondrouslie,
That there went up from ev'ry throat
The verdict, 'for Arion I vote:'
Vote the prize; and gifts as well,
Crowns of gold and of asphodel;
Lyres all a-glow with gems,
Robes bejewell'd to their hems;
A thousand golden pieces and one
For the gifted son of Poseidon:
And, hark, as 'twere the bellowing thunder,
In clang'rous shouts men tell their wonder.
Arion now homeward takes his way
In a fair ship steer'd for Corinth Bay;
Proud of his prizes, proud of his skill,
Proud that soon Periander will
Welcome him fondly, and call him friend,
With words such as no money can send.
Alas and alas, such crime to tell!
The ship-captain and sailors fell
Covet his gold, and have it must,
Though Arion they murder by blow or thrust.
But Apollo at midnight hour
Sendeth a dream in mystic power;
It showeth the men, it showeth their crime.
Arion awakes with the morning's chime;
Awakes, and planneth how to escape.
Vain, vain all; on him they gape,
Thirsting alike for gold and life,
Murder and covetousness at strife.
'Suffer me, then,' Arion said,
'That I may play as I have play'd;
Here is my poor Lyre, and, ere I die,
Let me prove its minstrelsy.'
He has donn'd him now in gay attire,
Festal robes; in his hand his Lyre.
List ye, list ye; above, below,
Sounds such as only the angels know;
Sounds that are born of rapture and bliss,
Of the throbbing heart and the burning love-kiss.
Now it is soft, pathetic, low,
Then 'gins to change to cry of woe;
Now it comes rushing as if the thunder
Came booming from the deep earth under;
Pulsing along each quivering string
As though the Lyre were a living thing,
And Arion's hand had so cunning a spell
As should win all heaven--ay and hell.
O, came there never such melodie
From mortal earth or mortal sky.
He mounted to the good ship's prow,
And mingling with his song a vow
To the gods, he himself threw
Out 'mid the waves from that damnable crew.
Up through the waves the Dolphins bound,
A hundred bended backs are found,
Each one more eager than the rest
To upbear the sweet Player on Ocean's breast.
Arion ascends; and, lo, he stands,
His Lyre unwet within his hands:
Onward and onward careering they go;
O soft and true the notes that flow!
Rising, falling, swelling, dying,
Near and nearer, far-off flying;
Pulsing along each quivering string
As though the Lyre were a living thing.
New is the ship, as new the freight;
The Dolphin feels never the weight;
New is the ship, and new the fare,
That of the water, this of the air:
The sailors in their greed him lost,
The Dolphin bears him withouten cost.
Away and away with a shim'ring track
Arion goes on the Dolphin's back;
Away and away, still softly playing,
Each string his lightest touch obeying.
Under the spell the Sea grows calm,
Listing attent his witching psalm;
Under the spell the air grows mild,
Breathing soft as sleeping child.
But who may seek all the tale to tell?
It is a tale unspeakable.
Onward and onward careering they go,
Silence above and silence below:
The Storm-gale shuts its mouth and lists,
The Wind folds its pinions and desists,
Following, not blowing, drawing not, but drawn,
From early ev'ning to breaking dawn.
Tenarus at last Arion beheld;
Tenarus, his own dear home that held;
And as together they swiftly come,
He claps hands loud and thinks of home.
The Dolphin seeks a quiet cove;
The Dolphin arching its back above
The azure waters, leaves him there,
A-list'ning still his Lyre to hear.
Homeward to Corinth Arion proceeds:
Periander a tale of suff'ring reads
In the thinned cheek and the dreamy eye,
In the tremulous words and the laden sigh.
The story is told. O story of wrong!
The ship returns; and it is not long
Ere captain and crew, at bar arraign'd,
Must tell where Arion they detain'd.
'He tarries,' quoth they, 'in Sicily,
Winning all men by his minstrelsie.'
Lies were proven in their throat.
Periander his hands together smote,
Swearing a solemn oath that they--
One, all--should drown'd be in the Bay.
Tied hand and foot, pallor'd and grim,
'Tis done as they would ha' done to him.
A plunge as of a plunging stone,
A few bubbles--Vengeance is done! G.