“What can it be?” inquire the men—
“An iceberg, or a sail?”
As yet the crew inquire in vain,
And doubt must yet prevail.
Yes, doubt prevails, and strengthens still,
Though fast the object nears.
“Sure ’tis no sail which at the will
Of winds and billows steers!”
Fancy still limns out forms uncouth,
Yet scarce herself persuades;
But fancy now gives place to truth
More startling than her shades.
A dreary hull, with shattered mast,
And sails of strangest guise,
And cordage fluttering in the blast,
Now meets their wondering eyes.
The bark they hail;—in many a groan
The bellowing shrouds reply;
But bellowing shrouds respond alone;—
No voice returns the cry.
Strange!—for, as near with curious haste
They ply, and glance within,
Lo! at the cabin window placed,
A form is dimly seen.
They mount the floating ruin now—
Her deck is overlaid
Man’s height in crusted ice and snow,
Which shows no human tread.
To find the hatch beneath the drift,
They all their efforts lend,—
Its frozen planks at length they lift,
And fearfully descend.
Now pause they at the cabin door;—
Now enter, as they will;—
Its quiet inmate, as before,
Sits unconcerned and still.
With pen in hand, and half reclined,
Like those in thoughtful moods;
To noises deaf, to visions blind,
He cares not who intrudes.