And the Prince cried, "Friends, 'tis the hour to sing!

Is a song bird's course so swift on the wing?"

And under the winter stars' still throng, From brown throats, white throats, merry and strong, The knights and the ladies raised a song.

A song,--nay, a shriek that rent the sky, That leaped o'er the deep!--the grievous cry Of three hundred living that now must die.

An instant shriek that sprang to the shock As the ship's keel felt the sunken rock.

'Tis said that afar--a shrill strange sigh-- The King's ships heard it and knew not why.

Pale Fitz-Stephen stood by the helm 'Mid all those folk that the waves must whelm.

A great King's heir for the waves to whelm, And the helpless pilot pale at the helm!

The ship was eager and sucked athirst, By the stealthy stab of the sharp reef pierced:

And like the moil round a sinking cup, The waters against her crowded up.

A moment the pilot's senses spin,-- The next he s.n.a.t.c.hed the Prince 'mid the din, Cut the boat loose, and the youth leaped in.

A few friends leaped with him, standing near.

"Row! the sea's smooth and the night is clear!"

"What! none to be saved but these and I?"

"Row, row as you'd live! All here must die!"

Out of the churn of the choking ship, Which the gulf grapples and the waves strip, They struck with the strained oars' flash and dip.

[Ill.u.s.tration: J. M. W. TURNER.

THE SHIPWRECK.]

'Twas then o'er the splitting bulwarks' brim The Prince's sister screamed to him.

He gazed aloft, still rowing apace, And through the whirled surf he knew her face.

To the toppling decks clave one and all As a fly cleaves to a chamber wall.

I, Berold, was clinging anear; I prayed for myself and quaked with fear, But I saw his eyes as he looked at her.

He knew her face and he heard her cry, And he said, "Put back! she must not die!"

And back with the current's force they reel Like a leaf that's drawn to a water wheel.

'Neath the ship's travail they scarce might float, But; he rose and stood in the rocking boat.

Low the poor ship leaned on the tide: O'er the naked keel as she best might slide, The sister toiled to the brother's side.

He reached an oar to her from below, And stiffened his arms to clutch her so.

But now from the ship some spied the boat, And "Saved!" was the cry from many a throat.

And down to the boat they leaped and fell: It turned as a bucket turns in a well, And nothing was there but the surge and swell.

The Prince that was and the King to come, There in an instant gone to his doom, Despite of all England's bended knee And maugre the Norman fealty!

He was a Prince of l.u.s.t and pride; He showed no grace till the hour he died.

When he should be King, he oft would vow, He'd yoke the peasant to his own plow.

O'er him the ships score their furrows now.

G.o.d only knows where his soul did wake, But I saw him die for his sister's sake.

By none but me can the tale be told, The butcher of Rouen, poor Berold.

(_Lands are swayed by a King on a throne._)

'Twas a royal train put forth to sea, Yet the tale can be told by none but me.

(_The sea hath no King but G.o.d alone._)

And now the end came o'er the water's womb Like the last great day that's yet to come.

With prayers in vain and curses in vain, The White Ship sundered on the midmain:

And what were men and what was a ship, Were toys and splinters in the sea's grip.

I, Berold, was down in the sea; And pa.s.sing strange though the thing may be, Of dreams then known I remember me.

Blithe is the shout on Harfleur's strand When morning lights the sails to land:

And blithe is Honfleur's echoing gloam When mothers call the children home:

And high do the bells of Rouen beat When the Body of Christ goes down the street.

These things and the like were heard and shown In a moment's trance 'neath the sea alone;

And when I rose, 'twas the sea did seem, And not these things, to be all in a dream.

The ship was gone and the crowd was gone, And the deep shuddered and the moon shone:

And in a straight grasp my arms did span The mainyard rent from the mast where it ran; And on it with me was another man.

Where lands were none 'neath the dim sea sky, We told our names, that man and I.

"O I am G.o.defroy de l'Aigle hight, And son I am to a belted knight."

"And I am Berold the butcher's son Who slays the beasts in Rouen town."

Then cried we upon G.o.d's name, as we Did drift on the bitter winter sea.