He spoke, and the cup from the terrible steep, That, rugged and hoary, hung over the verge Of the endless and measureless world of the deep, Swirl'd into the maelstrom that madden'd the surge. "And where is the diver so stout to go-- I ask ye again--to the deep below?" And the knights and the squires that gather'd around, Stood silent--and fix'd on the ocean their eyes; They look'd on the dismal and savage profound, And the peril chill'd back every thought of the prize. And thrice spoke the monarch: "The cup to win, Is there never a wight who will venture in?" And all as before heard in silence the king, Till a youth with an aspect unfearing but gentle, 'Mid the tremulous squires stepp'd out from the ring, Unbuckling his girdle, and doffing his mantle; And the murmuring crowd, as they parted asunder, On the stately boy cast their looks of wonder. As he strode to the marge of the summit, and gave One glance on the gulf of that merciless main, Lo! the wave that for ever devours the wave, Casts roaringly up the Charybdis again: And, as with the swell of the far thunder-boom, Rushes foamingly forth from the heart of the gloom. And it bubbles and seethes, and it hisses and roars, As when fire is with water commix'd and contending, And the spray of its wrath to the welkin up-soars, And flood upon flood hurries on, never ending; And it never _will_ rest, nor from travail be free, Like a sea that is laboring the birth of a sea. Yet, at length, comes a lull o'er the mighty commotion, And dark through the whiteness, and still through the swell, The whirlpool cleaves downward and downward in ocean A yawning abyss, like the pathway to hell; The stiller and darker the farther it goes, Suck'd into that smoothness the breakers repose. The youth gave his trust to his Maker! Before That path through the riven abyss closed again, Hark! a shriek from the gazers that circle the shore,-- And, behold! he is whirl'd in the grasp of the main! And o'er him the breakers mysteriously roll'd, And the giant-mouth closed on the swimmer so bold. All was still on the height, save the murmur that went From the grave of the deep, sounding hollow and fell, Or save when the tremulous, sighing lament Thrill'd from lip unto lip, "Gallant youth, fare thee well!" More hollow and more wails the deep on the ear,-- More dread and more dread grows suspense in its fear. --If thou shouldst in those waters thy diadem fling, And cry, "Who may find it shall win it and wear"; God wot, though the prize were the crown of a king, A crown at such hazard were valued too dear. For never shall lips of the living reveal What the deeps that howl yonder in terror conceal.