Soon he arose and paced along the shore, And gazed out seaward for the blessed light; But nought he saw except the old sad sight, The ceaseless tumbling of the billows grey, The white upspringing of the spurts of spray Amidst that mass of timbers, the rent bones Of the sea-houses of the hapless ones Once cast like him upon this deadly isle. He stopped his pacing in a little while, And clenched his mighty hands, and set his teeth, And gazing at the ruin underneath, He swung from off the bare cliff's jagged brow, And on some slippery ledge he wavered now, Without a hand-hold, and now stoutly clung With hands alone, and o'er the welter hung, Not caring aught if thus his life should end; But safely amidst all this did he descend The dreadful cliff, and since no beach was there, But from the depths the rock rose stark and bare, Nor crumbled aught beneath the hammering sea, Upon the wrecks he stood unsteadily.
But now, amid the clamour of the waves, And washing to-and-fro of beams and staves, Dizzy with hunger, dreamy with distress, And all those days of fear and loneliness, The ocean's tumult seemed the battle's roar, His heart grew hot, as when in days of yore He heard the cymbals clash amid the crowd Of dusky faces; now he shouted loud, And from crushed beam to beam began to leap, And yet his footing somehow did he keep Amidst their tossing, and indeed the sea Was somewhat sunk upon the island's lee. So quickly on from wreck to wreck he passed, And reached the outer line of wrecks at last, And there a moment stood unsteadily, Amid the drift of spray that hurried by, And drew Courtain his sword from out its sheath, And poised himself to meet the coming death, Still looking out to sea; but as he gazed, And once or twice his doubtful feet he raised To take the final plunge, that heavenly strain Over the washing waves he heard again, And from the dimness something bright he saw Across the waste of waters towards him draw; And hidden now, now raised aloft, at last Unto his very feet a boat was cast, Gilded inside and out, and well arrayed With cushions soft; far fitter to have weighed From some sweet garden on the shallow Seine, Or in a reach of green Thames to have lain, Than struggle with that huge confuséd sea; But Ogier gazed upon it doubtfully One moment, and then, sheathing Courtain, said, "What tales are these about the newly dead The heathen told? what matter, let all pass; This moment as one dead indeed I was, And this must be what I have got to do, I yet perchance may light on something new Before I die; though yet perchance this keel Unto the wondrous mass of charméd steel Is drawn as others." With that word he leapt Into the boat, and o'er the cushions crept From stem to stern, but found no rudder there, Nor any oars, nor were the cushions fair Made wet by any dashing of the sea. Now while he pondered how these things could be, The boat began to move therefrom at last, But over him a drowsiness was cast, And as o'er tumbling hills the skiff did pass, He clean forgot his death and where he was.