To the west of me was the ocean, To the right the desolate shore, But I did not slacken sail For the walrus or the whale, Till after three days more. The days grew longer and longer, Till they became as one, And southward through the haze I saw the sullen blaze Of the red midnight sun. And then uprose before me, Upon the water's edge, The huge and haggard shape Of that unknown North Cape, Whose form is like a wedge. The sea was rough and stormy, The tempest howled and wailed, And the sea-fog, like a ghost, Haunted that dreary coast, But onward still I sailed. Four days I steered to eastward, Four days without a night: Round in a fiery ring Went the great sun, O King, With red and lurid light.' Here Alfred, King of the Saxons, Ceased writing for a while; And raised his eyes from his book, With a strange and puzzled look, And an incredulous smile. But Othere, the old sea-captain, He neither paused nor stirred, Till the King listened, and then Once more took up his pen, And wrote down every word. 'And now the land,' said Othere, 'Bent southward suddenly, And I followed the curving shore, And ever southward bore Into a nameless sea. And there we hunted the walrus, The narwhale, and the seal; Ha! 'twas a noble game! And like the lightning's flame Flew our harpoons of steel. There were six of us all together, Norsemen of Helgoland; In two days and no more We killed of them threescore, And dragged them to the strand.' Here Alfred, the Truth-Teller, Suddenly closed his book, And lifted his blue eyes, With doubt and strange surmise Depicted in their look. And Othere, the old sea-captain, Stared at him wild and weird, Then smiled till his shining teeth Gleamed white from underneath His tawny, quivering beard. And to the King of the Saxons, In witness of the truth, Raising his noble head, He stretched his brown hand, and said, 'Behold this walrus-tooth!' _Longfellow._ XCI THE CUMBERLAND At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, On board of the Cumberland, sloop of war; And at times from the fortress across the bay The alarum of drums swept past, Or a bugle blast From the camp on the shore. Then far away to the south uprose A little feather of snow-white smoke, And we knew that the iron ship of our foes Was steadily steering its course To try the force Of our ribs of oak. Down upon us heavily runs, Silent and sullen, the floating fort; Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns, And leaps the terrible death, With fiery breath, From each open port.