how;
  But not so pleasantly as now: 
  Poor pilot I, by snows confounded,
  And many a foundrous pit surrounded! 535
  Yet here we are, by night and day
  Grinding through rough and smooth our way;
  Through foul and fair our task fulfilling;
  And long shall be so yet—­God willing!”

    “Ay,” said the Tar, “through fair and foul—­540
  But save us from yon screeching owl!”
  That instant was begun a fray
  Which called their thoughts another way: 
  The mastiff, ill-conditioned carl! 
  What must he do but growl and snarl, 545
  Still more and more dissatisfied
  With the meek comrade at his side! 
  Till, not incensed though put to proof,
  The Ass, uplifting a hind hoof,
  Salutes the Mastiff on the head; 550
  And so were better manners bred,
  And all was calmed and quieted.

    “Yon screech-owl,” says the Sailor, turning
  Back to his former cause of mourning,
  “Yon owl!—­pray God that all be well! 555
  ’Tis worse than any funeral bell;
  As sure as I’ve the gift of sight,
  We shall be meeting ghosts to-night!”
—­Said Benjamin, “This whip shall lay
  A thousand, if they cross our way. 560
  I know that Wanton’s noisy station,
  I know him and his occupation;
  The jolly bird hath learned his cheer
  Upon [50] the banks of Windermere;
  Where a tribe of them make merry, 565
  Mocking the Man that keeps the ferry;
  Hallooing from an open throat,
  Like travellers shouting for a boat. 
—­The tricks he learned at Windermere
  This vagrant owl is playing here—­570
  That is the worst of his employment: 
  He’s at the top [51] of his enjoyment!”

    This explanation stilled the alarm,
  Cured the foreboder like a charm;
  This, and the manner, and the voice, 575
  Summoned the Sailor to rejoice;
  His heart is up—­he fears no evil
  From life or death, from man or devil;
  He wheels [52]—­and, making many stops,
  Brandished his crutch against the mountain tops; 580
  And, while he talked of blows and scars,
  Benjamin, among the stars,
  Beheld a dancing—­and a glancing;
  Such retreating and advancing
  As, I ween, was never seen 585
  In bloodiest battle since the days of Mars!

CANTO FOURTH

  Thus they, with freaks of proud delight,
  Beguile the remnant of the night;
  And many a snatch of jovial song
  Regales them as they wind along; 590
  While to the music, from on high,
  The echoes make a glad reply.—­
  But the sage Muse the revel heeds
  No farther than her story needs;