And then he lit the lamp, drowned to the waist; "Here's a fine house! Get at the scupper-holes"-- He bent against it as the water raced-- "And pull them out to leeward when she rolls. They say some kinds of landsmen don't have souls. I well believe. A Port Mahon baboon Would make more soul than you got with a spoon." Down in the icy water Dauber groped To find the plug; the racing water sluiced Over his head and shoulders as she sloped. Without, judged by the sound, all hell was loosed. He felt cold Death about him tightly noosed. That Death was better than the misery there Iced on the quaking foothold high in air. And then the thought came: "I'm a failure. All My life has been a failure. They were right. It will not matter if I go and fall; I should be free then from this hell's delight. I'll never paint. Best let it end to-night. I'll slip over the side. I've tried and failed." So in the ice-cold in the night he quailed. Death would be better, death, than this long hell Of mockery and surrender and dismay-- This long defeat of doing nothing well, Playing the part too high for him to play. "O Death! who hides the sorry thing away, Take me; I've failed. I cannot play these cards." There came a thundering from the topsail yards. And then he bit his lips, clenching his mind, And staggered out to muster, beating back The coward frozen self of him that whined. Come what cards might he meant to play the pack. "Ai!" screamed the wind; the topsail sheets went clack; Ice filled the air with spikes; the grey-backs burst. "Here's Dauber," said the Mate, "on deck the first. "Why, holy sailor, Dauber, you re a man! I took you for a soldier. Up now, come!" Up on the yards already they began That battle with a gale which strikes men dumb. The leaping topsail thundered like a drum. The frozen snow beat in the face like shots. The wind spun whipping wave-crests into clots. So up upon the topsail yard again, In the great tempest's fiercest hour, began Probation to the Dauber's soul, of pain Which crowds a century's torment in a span. For the next month the ocean taught this man, And he, in that month's torment, while she wested, Was never warm nor dry, nor full nor rested. But still it blew, or, if it lulled, it rose Within the hour and blew again; and still The water as it burst aboard her froze. The wind blew off an ice-field, raw and chill, Daunting man's body, tampering with his will; But after thirty days a ghostly sun Gave sickly promise that the storms were done. VII A great grey sea was running up the sky, Desolate birds flew past; their mewings came As that lone water's spiritual cry, Its forlorn voice, its essence, its soul's name. The ship limped in the water as if lame. Then in the forenoon watch to a great shout More sail was made, the reefs were shaken out.