Etchings in Verse (Underhill)/The Spell

by Andrew Findlay Underhill

THE SPELL.

THE ring that sleeps on her finger white
 Is a snake with mottled scales;
And the ship that wafts him from her sight
 Is a bark with snow-white sails.

The snake that sleeps on her finger there
 Has a cruel, swift, red eye.—
"Bound on, my bark, thro' the midnight air!
 Blow, wind, from the restless sky!"

The snake that clings to her milk white hand,
 A wizard hath charmed with spells.—
"Turn back, my bark, to my love's fair land,
 O'er the deep sea's bounding swells!

The viper writhes on her finger white;
 It raises its sickly coil!—
"My helmsman, back thro' the cloud-capped night,
 And the tempest's mad turmoil!"

She moans, and sighs; for the serpent's breath
 Is warm with her crimson blood!—
"On—on, I say, thro' the jaws of death,
 And the foam of the wind-lashed flood!"

The wizard's spells they have seared her heart,
 And she knoweth her knight no more.—
"From this land, my sword, we shall ne'er depart
 Till his blood hath bathed the shore!"

The snake's dull scales are as cold as lead;
 And the wizard's heart lies bare.—
"Await, my bark, at the headland's head:
 We shall sail by the beacon's flare."

"She is not dead from the serpent's sting;
 But her heart is dead to me:
Then away—away! Let the storm-bells ring;
 Here's for death and the tideless sea!"