The Downing legends : Stories in Rhyme :: :: University of Virginia Library

But nearing now their longed for goal,
A ghostly transformation stole
Athwart these searchers after land.
A mighty spell, a spectral hand,
Perchance the fume of earthly airs,
Unbraced the kindly, tender snares
Of miracle that held them young;
And all the bygone years that hung
Above them fluttered down; and they
Were smitten wrinkled, bent and grey.

A froth of silver overrolled
The captain's wealth of curling gold,
And furrows crept adown his cheek,
And palsy made his stoutness meek.
The rounded grace and rosebud hue
Of fair Cornelie Vanderloo
Fell tremulous and white and spare
As lated stars in morning's glare.
From breath to breath the awful change
Increased in might, took wider range,
Pervaded spirit, blood and bone,
And swiftly laid the strongest prone.

Erelong the leader stood alone,
With agèd head in meekness bent,
And prayed, “Receive us! we repent.”
One moment stood with lifted face;
One moment claimed the Heavenly grace;
Then sate, nor quitted more his place.
Cornelie, now a withered dame,

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Embraced with tears the shrunken frame
Of him whose fated nuptial band
For ages gemmed her living hand,
Both bowing heads of silver hair
And moving ashen lips in prayer.

The greybeard sailors, ghostly pale
And shaking, leaned against the rail,
Or feebly fumbled tools of rust
And cordage crumbling into dust.
For all the galleon was fraught
With swift decadence into naught;
The sails were dropping mould and blight;
The spars blew off in slivers white;
The oaken sides and bolted deck
Relaxed to flimsy, yawning wreck;
Each onward fathom tow'rd the quay.
Wrought lustres, cycles, of decay.