• He gazed aloft, still rowing apace,
• And through the whirled surf he knew her face.

• To the toppling decks clave one and all
• As a fly cleaves to a chamber-wall.

• I Berold was clinging anear;
• I prayed for myself and quaked with fear,
• But I saw his eyes as he looked at her.

• He knew her face and he heard her cry,
• 120And he said, “Put back! she must not die!”

• And back with the current's force they reel
• Like a leaf that's drawn to a water-wheel.

• 'Neath the ship's travaìl they scarce might float,
• But he rose and stood in the rocking boat.

• Low the poor ship leaned on the tide:
• O'er the naked keel as she best might slide,
• The sister toiled to the brother's side.

• He reached an oar to her from below,
• And stiffened his arms to clutch her so.

• 130But now from the ship some spied the boat,
• And “Saved!” was the cry from many a throat.

• And down to the boat they leaped and fell:
• It turned as a bucket turns in a well,
• And nothing was there but the surge and swell.

• The Prince that was and the King to come,
• There in an instant gone to his doom,

• Despite of all England's bended knee
• And maugre the Norman fealty!

• He was a Prince of lust and pride;
• 140He showed no grace till the hour he died.

• When he should be King, he oft would vow,
• He'd yoke the peasant to his own plough.
• O'er him the ships score their furrows now.

• God only knows where his soul did wake,
• But I saw him die for his sister's sake.

• By none but me can the tale be told,
• The butcher of Rouen, poor Berold.
• ( Lands are swayed by a King on a throne.)
• 'Twas a royal train put forth to sea,
• 150Yet the tale can be told by none but me.
• ( The sea hath no King but God alone.)

• And now the end came o'er the waters' womb
• Like the last great Day that's yet to come.

• With prayers in vain and curses in vain,
• The White Ship sundered on the mid-main:

• And what were men and what was a ship
• Were toys and splinters in the sea's grip.

• I Berold was down in the sea;
• And passing strange though the thing may be,
• 160Of dreams then known I remember me.

• Blithe is the shout on Harfleur's strand
• When morning lights the sails to land:

• And blithe is Honfleur's echoing gloam
• When mothers call the children home:

• And high do the bells of Rouen beat
• When the Body of Christ goes down the street.

• These things and the like were heard and shown
• In a moment's trance 'neath the sea alone;

• And when I rose, 'twas the sea did seem,
• 170And not these things, to be all a dream.

• The ship was gone and the crowd was gone,
• And the deep shuddered and the moon shone:

• And in a strait grasp my arms did span
• The mainyard rent from the mast where it ran;
• And on it with me was another man.

• Where lands were none 'neath the dim sea-sky,
• We told our names, that man and I.

• “O I am Godefroy de l'Aigle hight,
• And son I am to a belted knight.”

• 180“And I am Berold the butcher's son
• Who slays the beasts in Rouen town.”

• Then cried we upon God's name, as we
• Did drift on the bitter winter sea.

• But lo! a third man rose o'er the wave,
• And we said, “Thank God! us three may He
• save!”

• He clutched to the yard with panting stare,
• And we looked and knew Fitz-Stephen there.

• He clung, and “What of the Prince?” quoth he.
• “Lost, lost!” we cried. He cried, “Woe on me!”
• 190And loosed his hold and sank through the sea.

• And soul with soul again in that space
• We two were together face to face:

• And each knew each, as the moments sped,
• Less for one living than for one dead:

• And every still star overhead
• Seemed an eye that knew we were but dead.

• And the hours passed; till the noble's son
• Sighed, “God be thy help! my strength's foredone!

• “O farewell, friend, for I can no more!”
• 200“Christ take thee!” I moaned; and his life was o'er.

• Three hundred souls were all lost but one,
• And I drifted over the sea alone.

• At last the morning rose on the sea
• Like an angel's wing that beat tow'rds me.

• Sore numbed I was in my sheepskin coat;
• Half dead I hung, and might nothing note,
• Till I woke sun-warmed in a fisher-boat.

• The sun was high o'er the eastern brim
• As I praised God and gave thanks to Him.

• 210That day I told my tale to a priest,
• Who charged me, till the shrift were releas'd,
• That I should keep it in mine own breast!

• And with the priest I thence did fare
• To King Henry's court at Winchester.

• We spoke with the King's high chamberlain,
• And he wept and mourned again and again,
• As if his own son had been slain:

• And round us ever there crowded fast
• Great men with faces all aghast:

• 220And who so bold that might tell the thing
• Which now they knew to their lord the King?
• Much woe I learnt in their communing.

• The King had watched with a heart sore stirred
• For two whole days, and this was the third:

• And still to all his court would he say,
• “What keeps my son so long away?”

• And they said: “The ports lie far and wide
• That skirt the swell of the English tide;

• “And England's cliffs are not more white
• 230Than her women are, and scarce so light
• Her skies as their eyes are blue and bright;

• “And in some port that he reached from France
• The Prince has lingered for his pleasaùnce.”

• But once the King asked: “What distant cry
• Was that we heard 'twixt the sea and sky?”

• And one said: “With suchlike shouts, pardie!
• Do the fishers fling their nets at sea.”

• And one: “Who knows not the shrieking quest
• When the sea-mew misses its young from the nest?”

• 240'Twas thus till now they had soothed his dread,
• Albeit they knew not what they said:

• But who should speak to-day of the thing
• That all knew there except the King?

• Then pondering much they found a way,
• And met round the King's high seat that day:

• And the King sat with a heart sore stirred,
• And seldom he spoke and seldom heard.

• 'Twas then through the hall the King was 'ware
• Of a little boy with golden hair,

• 250As bright as the golden poppy is
• That the beach breeds for the surf to kiss:

• Yet pale his cheek as the thorn in Spring,
• And his garb black like the raven's wing.

• Nothing heard but his foot through the hall,
• For now the lords were silent all.

• And the King wondered, and said, “Alack!
• Who sends me a fair boy dressed in black?

• “Why, sweet heart, do you pace through the hall
• As though my court were a funeral?”

• 260Then lowly knelt the child at the dais,
• And looked up weeping in the King's face.

• “O wherefore black, O King, ye may say,
• For white is the hue of death to-day.

• “Your son and all his fellowship
• Lie low in the sea with the White Ship.”

• King Henry fell as a man struck dead;
• And speechless still he stared from his bed
• When to him next day my rede I read.

• There's many an hour must needs beguile
• 270A King's high heart that he should smile,—

• Full many a lordly hour, full fain
• Of his realm's rule and pride of his reign:—

• But this King never smiled again.

• By none but me can the tale be told,
• The butcher of Rouen, poor Berold.
• ( Lands are swayed by a King on a throne.)
• 'Twas a royal train put forth to sea,
• Yet the tale can be told by none but me.
• ( The sea hath no King but God alone.)