The Collected Works of William Morris :: :: University of Virginia Library

Natheless we moved down towards the shore
Hoping for nought but quiet death,
Nor did we look back any more
On those fair creatures that lacked breath.

Then through those courts we went again
And found the doors still open wide:
Still brushed the golden counterpane
Against that lady's naked side;

Still stood the bathing dames, spotless
In the green water, on the brink
Still lay the shoes their feet did press,
Fairer than any man could think.

And still as through the streets we went
We saw the people as before
Standing like images of Ghent,
Until we came unto the shore.

There swung our good ship in the swell
Among the others, but her sail,
We left new, strong, and sheeted well,
Was gone—none left to tell the tale.

159

Now all of us did kneel on knee
And for the souls of those dead men
We prayed to God full heartily,
And boarded our old vessel then

Ship rowed out (small)

And loosed the hawsers and set out
Bending but weakly to the oar,
And with no cheery and glad shout
As we had done so oft before.

The Fighting Man just as of old
We saw still swinging in the tide,
And 'twixt her timbers did behold
Our fellows laid asleep inside.

So there we left the Fighting Man,
And as we turned round toward the West
And up the white-topped seas we ran,
Almost we thought their lot the best.

Now when we were got out to sea
We laboured little at the oar,
Taking but care her head should be
Turned westward, as in days of yore.

Thus did we drift till the third day,
And then we came unto an isle,
And spying there a sandy bay
Had heart to rest a little while.

And when we landed there, we found
The place was well-watered and fair,
And sea-birds' eggs did much abound,
And ripe sweet fruit was plenty there.

We victualled the good ship with these,
Being fain to let the sea-birds go
Though tame they sat upon the trees,
For neither had we shaft nor bow.

160

Then we took ship and put to sea,
And in such case for fifteen days
We were, as any folk might be
Who go upon the watery ways.

But then the moon being high and bright,
A rosy light we did espy
About an hour before midnight,
Far off to leeward in the sky.

And when straightway we made for it
Brighter it grew as we drew near,
But clouds across it oft would flit,
At day-break did it disappear.

By night we saw it clear again,
But redder, as a fire shows
From far, that sometimes seems to wane,
And sometimes waxing brighter grows

But this grew great, as we did sail
On towards it, till the night grew day
Therewith, and the full moon grew pale
And yet the fire was far away.

And now, since in us fear was dead,
We sailed thereto, and saw a sight
That was full dreadful, by my head,
A mighty city all alight,

But certes with no earthly flame:
No houses fell, no smoke arose,
No weeping people from it came;
About it were no shouting foes.

The burning city (big)

Upright and whole the houses stood,
There stood the pinnacles, blood-red;
Marble and stone, and brick and wood
Were bathed in fire that nothing fed.

161

For all the folk were gone away
Or else consumed: that God's mercy
Might light upon them did we pray—
Yea wheresoever they might be.

Then did we turn our dromond's head
And rowed West, with what strength we might,
And for three days the sky was red
With shining of that dreadful light

Both night and day: for three days more
At dark the pink cloud did we see,
Above the ever-burning shore;
Then all was grey, as it should be.

And now, Sirs, thin our story grows,
And soon unto an end we come;
Yea, a good end of all our woes
One way or other in your home.

For on the twentieth day from that
On which we left the burning town,
As idle on the deck I sat,
An hour before the sun went down,

Sir Nicholas, who at the bow
Was standing, called aloud and said:
“Ho Sirs! a new thing cometh now—
A town or white cliffs right ahead.”

Then one to the mast-head did go
To whom a town it seemed to be,
Therefore we busied us to row,
And, pulling all night mightily,

At morning twilight came anear
Unto this place whate'er it was,
And anchored in the water clear.
Then to me came Sir Nicholas,

162

And, stammering with eagerness,
Said, “O Rafe, once I dreamed a dream,
That day upon the Northern ness,
So long ago, it now does seem

Like an old story: oft ere this
With hope that all these things might be
And we thereby should come to bliss
Have I been mocked; therefore are we

Now weak and near our death for eld:
But now, even in the gathering light,
The place that dreaming I beheld
Do I see clear with waking sight,

So may God help me, every turn
Of the white houses and the walls;
Look! Look! for now the East doth burn
With dawn, and yellow glimmer falls

On that dear place, on that sweet place,
Where we shall live for evermore.
Kneel quickly, Rafe, and pray for grace
That we may live to reach the shore.”

But ere the deck did touch my knees
We heard the sound of men that sung
Born seaward from some revelries,
And through our ears and hearts it rung.