University of Virginia Library

Ithobal, Magon's son, of Tyre
Hath comfort for his heart's desire;
He builds in Egypt galleys three
To sail unto the unknown Sea.

May the King live for ever! By thy soul;
By thy magnificence and majesty;
Not less than such a treasure-house as thine,
No bounty meaner than great Pharaoh's grace,
No hand less open, and no weaker heart
Than thine, O Lord of Lords! had plenitude
For charges of this high emprize. Our Tyre,
With all her pride, her merchants bold and keen,
Her ships shut off into the Midland sea,
Her sailors fearless and her pilots wise
Held no heart for the task sore tempting her.
Thy kingly wish it was, thy kingly word,
Thy largesse, broad and fertile as the Nile,
Called me to be thy captive, and bestowed
With godlike power the means to work thy will;
And bring thee, as I bring, thy biddings done.
Nigh fifty moons agone—thou knowest, Lord!
Before thy throne I kneeled in this same hall
And heard thy word, how thine Egyptians brought
Tales whispered from the stillness of the South
Of lands outside known land, and wash of seas
Beyond heard waters where, what seemed to stand
The edge of the Earth, might haply stretch afar,
Might haply keep in darkness some new light,
In silence some strange voice, in the will of the Gods
Some golden secrets held for hardihood:
And how that darkness vexed thy royal soul;
And how that silence teased thee, and the thought
Though thou were Lord of Nile and did'st command
Suph and her shores, there might be territory,
Goodly to gain, and spread of sovereignty,
And godlike deeds to do, if one knew where.
And saying, “Thus much wot we,” thou didst bid
Thy scribes unroll the painted skins that shewed
The sea lines and the land lines where they stayed.
Then I, who had sailed boldest of my time,
Marked, at thy mandate, to what spot I went
Farthest of far. And when thou saidst to me
“What is yet farther, and how might we reach
To tear the truth from Kneph?” humbly I gave
Reply and spake: “Kneph and the mighty Gods
Alone know this: yet if a King should grant
Gold and the gifts to build three stalwart ships
Here on thy sea; and freight them full of gear;
And fit them in such wise to mock at storms;
And man them with picked companies enured
To close obedience and contempt of fate,
With rowers seasoned to the labouring oar,
And watchful timoneers, and men-at-arms
Chosen for bravest; I, tried sailor here,
Ithobal, son of Magon, at his word
Would from the silent gods their secret pluck
Or leave my life where I did lose his ships.”

Then, mighty Pharaoh! thou didst answer me,
“Build me those ships on these my waters here;
Build at what cost thou wilt to make them stout,
As if the beams were of red gold, and decks
Of planished silver. Stuff them with such gear
As largest forethought asks. Fill them with store
Of all thy longest travel could demand.
Hire me from Tyre or Sidon, whence thou wilt,
Picked mariners and skilful timoneers
And valiant men-at-arms who know thy flag,
And will not dread to follow where it flies.
Thou art of Pharaoh's service, Ithobal,
From this day's noon; and ye, chief councillors,
Put a red robe of honour on this man;
Give him a guard; and wearing this my ring,
Command my overseers, treasurers,
Store-keepers, officers, artificers,
To grant all asked, of timbers, leathers, brass,
Victuals, and viands, honey, grain and oil,
Fulfilling what he will.” So spakest thou,
Most royal master, lordliest of all lords!

Thus did I build and build. A windless creek
Turns hither from the western horn of Suph—
Which hath two horns upon the northern end
Of thy Red Water—turns to 'Ataka.
Broad yellow sands athwart the green waves look
To Moosa's Fountain, and grey mountains piled,
Peaks which take morning first, and rosy crags
That see the last of sunset over Cush.
There did we choose a spot with easy slope
To the dimpled inlet, and good underground
To take the cradles, while to that same place,
Moon after moon, thy bounty brought to me
Food for the toil; acacia wood, palm logs,
Sont, and, for stubborn knee-pieces and bends,
Grey iron-bark; also from Lebanon
By raft or caravan fair cedar planks,
Trimmed to fine edge, and pine-tree poles to make
Masts, and for benches lengths of sycamore,
With oak and ash for oars, and iron clamps
To knit the joints, and nails of bronze to bind
Timber to timber. And with these things came
Mechanics out of Tarshish, Sidon, Tyre,
Cunning to wield the mallet and the adze;
Carpenters, skilled to dovetail to a hair;
Smiths, who knew well with hammer and with tongs
To bend the brass taking their will like wax.
These came with sawyers, caulkers, sailmakers,
And those deep-crafty the green hides to twist
In cord and cable; or from hair and flax
Halyard and brace to braid; chiefs of the band,
The master-builders with their compasses
And reed-pens marking measurements, most shrewd
To note if any faulty baulk or knot
Creep with the sound stuff midst our goodly gear
And at some pinch bewray us. Succoured thus,
Well did our building fare by edge of sea.

Three ships we planned to build,—biremes,—to bulk
Large for our stores and sailors; not too large
To take the shore at need and deftly pass
Inside the reefs, by narrow channel ways,
When seas were angry. Ships that in the calm
Might lightly wend with measured stress of oars,
Or, if fair winds did blow, sea-worthy spread
Their painted wings. The first, of my command,
Should be The Silver Dove; in length t'was schemed
Sixty-five cubits, and in beam eleven;
Row-seats, of under deck fifteen a-side
Of upper row-seats, to the right and left,
Two-score. Forward and afterward, strong built,
Cabins enclosed; and round her sides a run
Of gallery, where mariners should work
Nor foul the oarsmen. In the foremost part,
A mast of pine with laddered shrouds, well-stayed;
And knitted linen sails, wide for light airs,
Scanty for blustering breezes; oar-ports carved
For seventy blades. Under the Thalamites,—
The lower rowers,—goodly space should stretch
Where stores would lie, and waste sea-water drain,
And the fair ship at need take ballast in.
Light must she be for hauling; strong for shocks,
Ample to house her company: this ship
Was mine and Lady Nesta's with the best
Gathered about us for the enterprise:
No slave band straining sullen at the looms,
But free men of the sea, good at the oar,
Good at the tackle, good at need with spear
Or sling or bow: tried mariners whereof
Hanno the Carchedonian, under me,
Had mastership; comrade in bygone days.
Built like to this, but of bulk scantier,
Was Ram of Kneph with fifty rowing men,
Hiram of Tyre her captain: joined with him
My sister's son, Hamilcar. Last and third,
The Black Whale whereupon Nimroud did rule
With Sothës the Egyptian. She should bear
Forty stout oars and be provision craft,
Close stuffed with goods and gear and merchandise.

These did we fashion as a man doth frame
That which life hangs on and the ends of life,
Not matching board nor morticing a beam
Save, mighty King, as if the eye of Thoth
Noted our labouring, to spare or slay
As each one's duty went into the work.
We laid false keels dressed out of stubborn stuff,
From stem to stem, to take the slippery sand,
The grinding shelf: bolted and fanged them home
Into the solid keels; and over those,
The kelsons moulded into one with them:
Atop of all false kelsons, where the feet
Of the masts stood fast. Across them and across
Bolted the sister-beams; built up the ribs;
Worked in the elbow-pieces and the knees;
Braced them with tough ties; wedged the transomends;
Drove home the deck supports; and covered in
The hollow wombs of these with bedded planks,
Doubled below; and every seam and joint
Nicely with pitch sealed in and palm fibres.
In all their sides we cut the ports for oars
Rimmed and well rounded; and to every port
The leathern sleeve true fixed, lest the rude sea
Break through upon the rowers.

When 'twas wrought,
And the three goodly ships lay trim and strong,—
Sea-things that took a life from shape and sheen,
And seemed like Ocean's children, keen to dip
Their breasts in the flood,—we stepped the masts in each;
Set up the standing tackle; hoisted yards;
Fitted abaft the two great oars that steer;
Bedecked each hull in colours glad and gay,
Reddening the prows and painting bold and bright
Each vessel's eyes, where the wide binding boards
Drew fine into the stem, fair-finishing
With each craft's emblem; mine a silver dove,
Ishtar's bright sign—to keep the Goddess ours—
And on The Ram of Kneph, the Lord of waves,
Figured in brass and ivory, for guide
Of Hanno's crew. But Hiram had for his
A great whale spouting, carved in ebony.
We launched them light, not straining the new hulls
Till seams should tighten, soaked; and all defaults
Show plain. But like sea-nymphs born for the brine,
Comely, defectless on the flood they sate.

Next, ship by ship, we laded, tier on tier
Stowing our merchandise; the cloth, the beads,
The wares wild people love, spare goods and gear,
And over these in tall red jars the grain;
Flour for the ship-cakes, honey, oil, pulse, meal,
Dried fish, and rice, and salted goods. Nor wine
Was lacking; seasoning herbs and kitchen stuff;
Nor camel-cheese, nor dates. The water-pots
At each port we should fill. Phoenician hands
Well know to pack a hold, wasting small space.
All lay in order; each man had his niche.
Afterwards in full council I unfold
How we shall voyage. This near sea is known.
Ishtar's bright bird on prow of Ithobal
Safely will wing her way from point to point,
From reef to reef, on western shore of Suph;
From Klysma to Greek Harbour; by Kosseir;
Under the emerald mount and 'Ataka;
Down past Aidhab, and where the hills of Kus
Shut off the sinking sun, till we attain,
Four hundred leagues from this, past many isles,
An island green and grey. The black rocks jag
Its lonely steeps; on this side and on that
The sea frets in a narrow passaging,
All day and night making its moan; for there
Is “Gate of Lamentation,” whence we pass,
By this hand or by that, out from those seas
That bear a name. Thus far 'tis training time;
We and our vessels will become acquaint.
And thus far shall these three, The Silver Dove,
The Ram and Whale securely wend: by day,
If North wind favours, spreading square sails wide;
If no wind blows over the poop, with oars;
By night reposing, when the sea rolls strong,
On shore well chosen; if the sea be still,
At anchor; save if Ishtar's kindly moon
Shine and 'tis good to make a night a day,
Lessening the leagues, and leagues and leagues to come.

Moreover for the slow the swift must wait,
Or by clear signals lead to meeting-place;
Best safety will still lie in fellowship.
We set for each the watches; such an hour
For toil, and such for food; at such an hour
Due worship to the gods; and then at such
To cleanse each ship, and broken gear refit,
And bale the holds, and grease the rowing-ports.
Also, by signs made, when to take the land,
And how to beach, and how to set a guard;
And who should search the fountains out, and fill
The water-pots; and who make friendly parle
With native people, opening markets so;
And what was good to buy and just to give.

Twas common lore of mariners how Suph
Sleeps in a tideless bed, nor feels that moon
Which at her full draws the wide waters up,
And at her dark half drops them. Thy Red Sea,
Great Pharaoh! belting in all Misraim here,
By no streams fed, bordered by burning sands
Or sun-baked mountains, sucks the ocean in
To give it forth again in mist and dew:
So, if one lay his ship upon a beach,
No certain flood will come to lift her off,
As otherwhere: but if the wind blow strong
This way or that a current runs will raise
The waters to two cubits or to three.
Well-nigh through all the year a North-West creams
The blue with silver; it shall fill our sails
Dawn after dawn till at the ninth moon's end—
Two moons from setting forth—we reach that isle
Baulking the Southern breeze, would hold us back;
Albeit as ye pass outside, by then,
The season mellows and the soft monsoon—
Prayed for of Arab sailors—breathing mild
Out of the white North-West, shall waft us on
Whither I know not, nor its winds nor tides.

Followed brave days; the North wind filled our sails,
The green sea glittered under 'Ataka,
Then, deepening, changed to blue, and sparkled bright
In spume and long-laced breaker, where reef edge
Breasted its roll. A good day's travel done—
Sufficeth if we finish fifteen leagues
With sheet and blade—at dark we find some nook
Of favouring shoal or friendly promontory,
Where my three ships could sleep safe moored, or rest
Aground. Then some on shore-lit cooking fires;
And some spread nets to catch the finny food;
And some adventured into thickets near
For fuel, or what game might be afoot,
Or fruits and gums and herbs. Glad they did stretch
Limbs cramped from shipboard on the dry clean sand,
Or chase with bow in hand the shy gazelle;
Or barter with the wild-eyed villagers;
To some all strange, but not to Nesta here,
My Lady of the Land, who knew its face—
As daughter knows the mother's eyes and lips—
And knew its flowers and trees, and why they grew,
And which were good and evil. Nay, one eve
This spacious deed had in beginning died
But for my lady. On the beach we paced,
The sun being just gone down, and heedlessly
I set my sandal on some mouldering bark:
Forth from the crackle slipped a hooded asp
Which stung and stung again. I mocked at the worm:
But Nesta, sweet orbs wide—lips drawn—teeth set—
Clutched me and cried, “Thou hast three hours to live,
Dear lord, except I find the serpent-root
In some near brake.” Then, stooping first, she sucked
Those two small wounds, and spitting on the sand,
Ran to the thicket; presently returned,
Some plant in hand which had a whitish leaf,
With prickles, and the blossom like a snake;
Of this she chews and chews, binds leaf and root
Over the limb; then from her bosom draws
Some sacred thing curiously wrought in gold,
Which helped her at her prayers, and clasping that,
Pillowed my hot brows on her gentle knees.
I had much thirst; meseems I nearly swooned,
But woke unharmed with Nesta watching near.
But, “Master dear!” she said, “'twas an ill worm!
Nought could have saved thee if my leaf saved not
And Nesta's faithful lips; oh! an ill worm!”

In midst of Suph ere yet the season breaks,
Between the winds a belt of calm will stretch
Under that burning arch of day, those nights
Spangled with stars. There idle hangs the sail,
Dead drops the useless pennon at mast-head;
From the deck-seams oozes the pitch, the planks
Burn the bared foot; the sea smokes in the sun,
And in its hot and oily glass there swim
Strange shapes that love the warm brine and the calm:
Water snakes, green and gold, or ringed, or pied,
Or mottled, like a pard, yellow and black;
Some with sharp muzzle, some with foul flat heads
And fiendish eyes; then monstrous sea-jellies,
Purple, and russet, silvery grey and pink,
With filmy oars and mouths which ope and close,
Pant their slow passage through the salt. Soon comes
Amidst them, as a ship through bladder-wrack,
The great grey robber-shark, his black fin hoist,
Like pirate's sail, and slimy belly of pearl;
A spear-blade gleaming as it cuts the blue.
The little fishes fly, save one bold sort
Striped motley, with long snout, which is the slave
And lick-plate of the shark, seeking for him
Food, that the little fish may leavings eat;
No shark so hungry that will swallow him.
Along the heaving hyaline there lie
Ropes of thick sea-grass, yellow, black, and red,
Torn by the teeth of storms from ledge awash
Along the coast; if we shall nearly look,
A thousand myriad little mariners
Die on that drifting wreck, small shell-fishes
Who made their tiny houses beautiful;
Strange creatures, like sea blossoms having lips
On every leaf, that built upon the rock,
And, like poor mortals, thought their world would last;
Now drive they outcast with their broken house.
Oft spake we, she and I, of this strange strife
By the high Gods decreed 'twixt life and death,
Where living to be slain we slay to live,
And all which Isis gives Amenti takes.
By the Seven Nameless Ones! she said a word
Wise to my mind, one morning, while we rowed
Nigh “The Two Brothers” in the belt of calm.
Beneath that windless morning on the waves
A flock of sea-fowl seated wide and far
Made the sea white; for leagues and leagues they rocked
On the smooth sob o' the deep, screaming for joy
Of living and the lust of prey. I spake:—
“See yonder gluttons of the wing and beak!
How glad and fair, yet are they murderers
Who spy huge shoals of homely guiltless fish
Hastening to spawn, and circumvent them here,
And swallow at a gulp mother and seed,
Father and milt; for one day of bird life
Destroying thirty myriad lives of fish!
Shall this be justice here? hath Thoth known all?
God Melcar, and Queen Ishtar and Great Bel?”
But reverently she fetched her fetish forth
And laid it to her lips, and murmured, “Lord!
To see the ways of Gods await new eyes.”

Then fell the rain storms: where the sister winds
From North and South bring their black cloud-wracks up,
These meet and break their sullen swollen wombs
With thunder and with lightning. O'er the sea
Wasted sweet water pelts, beats down the crests
Of billows that would rise, makes dry rocks ring
With patter of the cataracts, and paints
The barren valleys green. But we, aware
Of tempests in the middle waters, hug
The friendly shore, skirting with shallow keels
And cunning stress of oars, where the gaps come,
From cape to cape. One night, in the ninth moon,
The Ram, making for beach—the sea being full—
Took ground on lip of ledge, and shore away
Her hither bilge-piece. When the dawn did break
She hangs there, perilous. We lighten her;
We take off what we may of store and gear;
Fling overboard what might be spared; with pole
And rope put strain to free her, for she grinds
But by the counter: yet all's nought! the tide
Swells near its topmost: then doth Hiram take
His stoutest cable shoreward, kept a-dry,
Braces it twainfold three palm stems around;
Strains the great cord to breaking; yet all's nought!
Till, at the nick, when most the tide wave lifts,
And most the Ram doth tremble, Hiram cries,
“Water unto the cord!” Young Hamilcar
Drenches the hawser; the wet fibres knit
Closer by half a span; the cable cracks,
But the good ship swings free and comes to peace
On quiet sands.

Now must we find afield
Timber to mend Kneph's barque. Yet here grow not
The forest trees would fit our purposes;
Sont only, and the Doun, and stunted thorns.
Nathless, over the plain at foot of hills
That to a highland climb by terraces,
A belt of woodland darkens, green and long,
Whereto with spears and axes and a band
Of willing men we make a march. I go
With Lady Nesta and the Egyptian slaves,
Handah and Gondah. Since that day the knife
Was taken from their necks at Nesta's word,
These had been steadfast to her service, guards
Watching her steps and shadowing all her walks.
An open rolling plain it was that sloped
By rock and sand-hill and a world of thorns
To uplands with mimosa groves and mounds
By the wise ants built; oh! a lonely land,
Save for the ring-doves and some speckled hens
Which ran and cackled in the brake, and herds
Of silk-skinned antelopes. There, mighty King,
First did I view that creature of the waste
Which hath two horns upon his snout, and tail
Swine-like, and armoured plates like Gammadim,
Eyes of the pig, and body of the steer;
Surely in sport the high Gods fashioned it.
For, as we bore our beam forth from the wood,
The wild thing burst upon us, scattering all,
And Nesta said “Incomba, Master, heed!
This is the white horned beast of Africa
Which is to dread: stand still until he charge,
But when he sinks his muzzle to the ground,
Step swiftly right or left, he will not see.”
But while it came upon us Gondah's spear
Ham-strung the beast and when it wallowed prone,
The blade of Handah found its heart and slew
So were we quit, and good meat made that foe,
Carved in long strips and slow-dried in the sun.
Then patched we Hiram's vessel where the ledge
Tore her bilge bare. It was a seasoned balk
Shred by the lightning from a forest-king,
Untouched by worm, mended my stout Ram's side.
So speed we thence with south-wind, gusts, and rain,
And then, anew, calm seas whereon my crews
By this stage fitly trained, would emulate,
One flag against the other, ship with ship
Racing for joy of manhood and free waves.
With three-score blades and ten The Silver Dove
Held easy mastership. The Ram and Whale
More equal courses ran, and good to view
On such gay days the oars play to the tunes
Of flute and drum-skin sounded from bench-foot—
Zeugite and Thalamite—above, below,
Keeping one pulse and cutting clean the blue
To toss it, creamy foam and bubbles back
Along the whitened pathway of each keel,
Where in our wakes the glistening dolphins danced.
Thus southward, southward came we, sometimes held
Captive in bay or inlet by ill winds;
Sometimes much threatened of the coast people.
But we were strong and watchful; if ashore
We pitched a camp, the place was circled in
With thorny boughs and tree-roots and a fosse.
All down unto the isle, of mariners
Two only had we lost; some beast by night
Dragged one asleep into the dark; and one
Died of a calenture: that which is writ
Is writ within the book of each man's life.

In the tenth moon we sailed out of that sea:
There the great ocean opened; East and South
The unknown world which, Pharaoh! now is thine
By lordly primal right. East and to North
I myself wotted of a port secure
Into bare calcined hills gave entrance good,—
Shamshan they name the mountain—and the town
Which, in a cup of burnt-out fire-mount, sleeps
Attanoe. From the isle one day and night
With steadfast oars and favouring breath of breeze
Moored thy ships, Majesty of Egypt! safe.
It is a friendly people; from their wells
Hewn in the rock, we filled sweet water up;
Bought palm fruit and great cream-white Estridge-eggs—
For three men sharp-set one doth make a meal—
With millet-flour and oil of olive trees;
But mainly water; for my purpose held—
Unspoken save to Nesta and the chiefs—
Bold to put forth into that eastward blue
Which had no shore I knew, nor place of rest,
Nor help for thirst, nor food for emptiness,
Nor shield from storm and death, till we should pass
Full seven-score leagues of naked waves, and view
A great cliff rise out of that nameless sea—
So said the coast folk—and they called that cliff
East Horn of the Large Land where none hath come.