The rushing brine flow’d in apace;
His boat had ne’er a deck;
Fate seem’d to call him on, and he
Attended to her beck;
And so he went, still trusting on,
Though reckless—to his wreck!
XIV.
For as he left his helm, to heave
The ballast-bags a-weather,
Three monstrous seas came roaring on,
Like lions leagued together.
The two first waves the little boat
Swam over like a feather.—
XV.
The two first waves were past and gone,
And sinking in her wake;
The hugest still came leaping on,
And hissing like a snake;
Now helm a-lee! for through the midst,
The monster he must take!
XVI.
Ah, me! it was a dreary mount!
Its base as black as night,
Its top of pale and livid green,
Its crest of awful white,
Like Neptune with a leprosy,—
And so it rear’d upright!
XVII.
With quaking sails, the little boat
Climb’d up the foaming heap;
With quaking sails it paused awhile;
At balance on the steep;
Then rushing down the nether slope,
Plunged with a dizzy sweep!