Never since ship was set a-float Have men seen so strange a boat: Alive it is from deck to keel, Having the gray gleam of steel; Slippery as wave-wash'd wreck, Or as a war-ship's bloody deck. A Dolphin, lo, its huge back bending, Safety to Arion lending From the sailors of Sicily, Covetous of his golden monie; Money that as prize he had won Before all Singers aneath the sun; Playing and singing so famouslie, Singing and playing so wondrouslie, That there went up from ev'ry throat The verdict, 'for Arion I vote:' Vote the prize; and gifts as well, Crowns of gold and of asphodel; Lyres all a-glow with gems, Robes bejewell'd to their hems; A thousand golden pieces and one For the gifted son of Poseidon: And, hark, as 'twere the bellowing thunder, In clang'rous shouts men tell their wonder. Arion now homeward takes his way In a fair ship steer'd for Corinth Bay; Proud of his prizes, proud of his skill, Proud that soon Periander will Welcome him fondly, and call him friend, With words such as no money can send. Alas and alas, such crime to tell! The ship-captain and sailors fell Covet his gold, and have it must, Though Arion they murder by blow or thrust. But Apollo at midnight hour Sendeth a dream in mystic power; It showeth the men, it showeth their crime. Arion awakes with the morning's chime; Awakes, and planneth how to escape. Vain, vain all; on him they gape, Thirsting alike for gold and life, Murder and covetousness at strife. 'Suffer me, then,' Arion said, 'That I may play as I have play'd; Here is my poor Lyre, and, ere I die, Let me prove its minstrelsy.' He has donn'd him now in gay attire, Festal robes; in his hand his Lyre. List ye, list ye; above, below, Sounds such as only the angels know; Sounds that are born of rapture and bliss, Of the throbbing heart and the burning love-kiss. Now it is soft, pathetic, low, Then 'gins to change to cry of woe; Now it comes rushing as if the thunder Came booming from the deep earth under; Pulsing along each quivering string As though the Lyre were a living thing, And Arion's hand had so cunning a spell As should win all heaven--ay and hell. O, came there never such melodie From mortal earth or mortal sky. He mounted to the good ship's prow, And mingling with his song a vow To the gods, he himself threw Out 'mid the waves from that damnable crew. Up through the waves the Dolphins bound, A hundred bended backs are found, Each one more eager than the rest To upbear the sweet Player on Ocean's breast. Arion ascends; and, lo, he stands, His Lyre unwet within his hands: Onward and onward careering they go; O soft and true the notes that flow! Rising, falling, swelling, dying,