XX.

Through the approaching darkness of the wood 460 A human figure broke the solitude, Fantastically, it may be, arrayed, A seaman in a savage masquerade; Such as appears to rise out from the deep, When o'er the line the merry vessels sweep, And the rough Saturnalia of the tar Flock o'er the deck, in Neptune's borrowed car;[398] And, pleased, the God of Ocean sees his name Revive once more, though but in mimic game Of his true sons, who riot in the breeze 470 Undreamt of in his native Cyclades. Still the old God delights, from out the main, To snatch some glimpses of his ancient reign. Our sailor's jacket, though in ragged trim, His constant pipe, which never yet burned dim, His foremast air, and somewhat rolling gait, Like his dear vessel, spoke his former state; But then a sort of kerchief round his head, Not over tightly bound, nor nicely spread; And, 'stead of trowsers (ah! too early torn! 480 For even the mildest woods will have their thorn) A curious sort of somewhat scanty mat Now served for inexpressibles and hat; His naked feet and neck, and sunburnt face, Perchance might suit alike with either race. His arms were all his own, our Europe's growth, Which two worlds bless for civilising both; The musket swung behind his shoulders broad, And somewhat stooped by his marine abode, But brawny as the boar's; and hung beneath, 490 His cutlass drooped, unconscious of a sheath, Or lost or worn away; his pistols were Linked to his belt, a matrimonial pair-- (Let not this metaphor appear a scoff, Though one missed fire, the other would go off); These, with a bayonet, not so free from rust As when the arm-chest held its brighter trust, Completed his accoutrements, as Night Surveyed him in his garb heteroclite.