The Project Gutenberg eBook of Songs of Sea and Sail, by Thomas Fleming Day

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Title: Songs of Sea and Sail

Author: Thomas Fleming Day

Release Date: September 15, 2013 [EBook #43739]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Mark C. Orton, Anna Granta and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ***

SONGS OF SEA AND SAIL

SONGS OF

SEA AND SAIL

THOMAS FLEMING DAY

NEW YORK AND LONDON

THE RUDDER PUBLISHING COMPANY

1898

Copyright 1898

By THOMAS FLEMING DAY

All Rights Reserved

PRESS OF

THOMSON & CO.

NEW YORK

TO

THOSE WHO LOVE

THE SEA

AND ITS SHIPS.

[Pg 6]

[Pg 7]

CONTENTS.

1. PAGE

2. The Mermaid's Song    9

3. Trafalgar    13

4. When    18

5. The Forsaken Port    19

6. An Early Moonset    24

7. On the Bridge    25

8. Missing    30

9. Making Land    31

10. At Portsmouth    35

11. At Anchor    39

12. From the Cliff    40

13. Then and Now    42

14. The Ships    43

15. The Man-o'-War's Man's Yarn    49

16. A Foggy Morning    53

17. Unknown    55

18. The Coasters    57

19. To-Day    62

20. The Sailor of the Sail    63

21. The Yacht    68

22. The Trade Wind's Song    69

23. Execution Rock Light    71

24. The Cargo Boats    73

25. Noontide Calm    77

26. Old Buccaneer's Song    81

27. The Belfry of the Sea    85

28. Phantoms    95

29. Flotsam    98

30. The Lost Ship    99

31. The Main Sheet Song    101

32. The Landfall    103

33. The Clipper    104

34. The Constitution    105

35. The Tartar    107

36. Warning    110

37. In September    111

38. The Homeward Bounder's Song    113

39. The Spell of the Sea    115

40. Days of Oak    117

41. Long, Long Ago    119

42. Wind Happy Ships    122

43. The Quest    123

THE MERMAID'S SONG.

Oh, what comes flowing over the sea

In the hush of the evening's cool?

It is a mermaid singing to me

As she sits in a silver pool.

As she sits in a silver pool and sings

Of the world I never shall see,

Where the dulse-weed clings,

And the star-fish rings

The red anemone;

The world which lies

Where human eyes

Are never allowed to see

The gold and gems

And fluted stems

Of the crimson coral tree—

Is that what she sings to me?

She is haunting and holding my heart with a strain,

Where joy lies asleep in the shadow of pain;

And the world that is under the sea

Is spreading its pleasures and treasures to gain

The love that lies dormant in me—

The love that I bear for the sea,

For the secret and sorrowful sea;

Is luring my feet from the gray land again

And filling my soul with the scent of the main,

The sound and the scent of the sea;

And the speech of the siren is spoken in vain,

For that mermaid is singing to me

Of the world that is under the sea;

And the love that I bear for the ocean again,

For the mournful and mutable sea,

Has taken possession of me:

My heart is enmeshed in the mystical strain

That mermaid is singing to me

Of the world that lies under the sea.

Ah, hark again! In a sadder strain

She is singing a song to me—

A song of the unseen sea;

She is singing of ships whose wrecks have lain

For ages in the sea,

In the depths of the sunless sea;

And her voice is soft with a thought of the pain

That song is giving to me.

A thought that I thought forever had lain

In the depths of the soundless sea

Is searching my soul in that mermaid's strain

And bringing a sorrow to me

From the world that is under the sea.

For I have a friend whose bones have lain

For ages in the sea,

(For so it seems to me),

And her song has opened that wound again

And brought back a sorrow to me—

From the depths of the endless sea.

A grief that is grieving my life again,

A thought that I thought, forever had lain,

And never come back to me,

Is searching my soul in that mermaid's strain

And bringing a sorrow to me

From the world that lies under the sea.

Oh, what comes flowing over the sea

In the hush of the evening's cool?

It is a mermaid singing to me

As she sits in a silver pool.

TRAFALGAR, 1805.

We hailed the morning star

Above the Spanish shore;

Our cannon's random roar

Then woke black Trafalgar.

Where our foes

Lay in the crescent bay

We watched the fog bank gray

Melt silently away

As the sun uprose.

Then rolled the deep alarm—

The foeman's call to arm;

And swiftly from our van

There pass'd from man to man,

"They will fight."

With hearts that beat to chase

We caught the growing gale,

And 'neath a press of sail

Bore up to take our place

On the right.

Nelson, our admiral then,

Greatest of all seamen,

We cheered to death again

As he pass'd;

'Round toward the land

We tacked and stood about—

The hills rang to our shout

As lifted and blew out

His last command

From the mast.

Then flash'd our full broadside,

Roaring across the tide,

As crashing side by side

We broke their line;

Thro' rolling clouds of smoke

Burst in our prows of oak;

Their tall sides bent and broke

Like pine.

As died the stagger'd blast

The sails dropt to the mast;

That broadside was their last!

One more to clip her wing!

Quick away!

Tigers our boarders spring,

Cutlass to cutlass ring,

In the fray.

We heard no quarter call:

A man stood every Gaul!

Useless, their flag must fall

That day.

The fight thus well begun,

We paused a breathing space;

Each soul leapt to a face

As Nelson in his grace

Signaled "Well done!"

Staying the tott'ring mast

We rounded to the blast,

Grappled the next that pass'd—

A huge Spaniard.

No room to lift the ports:

Black gun to gun retorts—

Lip locked to lip,

Each man a firmer grip

On his lanyard.

To save this pride of Spain

A Frenchman joined the fight;

Then roaring in our might

We smote him with our right

Twice, and again.

"Cease! Cease!" our Captain cries.

"She lies

A silent wreck!"

Three times we spared that foe,

Yet from her came the blow

That laid our hero low

On the deck.

What more for me to say,

Save thro' the fatal fray

We marked the hours that day

With cheers!

Our foes struck one by one;

Yet when the fight was done

We saw the misty sun

Set thro' our tears.

O England, strong yet free,

The crown we bear to thee,

Laurels for victory!

Weave cypress in the wreath:

For he to whom thou gave

The keeping of the wave,

Nelson, the true, the brave,

Has struck his flag to death.

Oh, men of hero race,

In what a fitting place

To set his conquering star!—

Amid the battle's roar,

Under the rolling shore

Where rises wild and hoar

Cape Trafalgar.

WHEN.

When western winds are blowing soft

Across the Island Sound;

When every sail that draws aloft

Is swollen true and round;

When yellow shores along the lee

Slope upward to the sky;

When opal bright the land and sea

In changeful contact lie;

When idle yachts at anchor swim

Above a phantom shape;

When spires of canvas dot the rim

Which curves from cape to cape;

When sea-weed strewn the ebbing tide

Pours eastward to the main;

When clumsy coasters side by side

Tack in and out again—

When such a day is mine to live,

What has the world beyond to give?

THE FORSAKEN PORT.

Thro' all this perfect summer day

The wind has blown from out the west,

And now the sunset fires invest

Where looms the mainland far away,

The old town right abreast.

The red-brown roofs and rugged spires

Uplift and pierce the sunset fires,

The old town right abreast.

The ships rise up, and sail, and sail,

Then drop beneath the distant rim—

The crimson rim.

We watch their topsails float and trail—

Like bubbles 'round a goblet's brim,

A moment there they rise and dip,

Then break against the sky's red lip.

Unhailed the ships go sailing by

The old town over there;

And yet it seems we hear a cry—

A heart-born cry

Of anguish and despair,

Of hope lost in despair.

In speechful grief the old town stands

And beckons with its outstretched hands

As the ships go sailing by.

Long years ago its port was thronged

With many a busy sail,

With rustling sail.

And many a heart has sighed and longed

For that old town's cheery hail—

Has sighed and longed for that old town's welcome hail.

Oh, where are they who left thy port

In strength of youth, in pride of love?

Side by side with a dark consort,

Calm seas below, blue skies above,

They tacked and stood across the bar:

Only the sea knows where they are—

Only the sea!

Perhaps at night the phantom ships—

Thy lost ships—come sailing in;

Their spectre crews with parted lips

That utter no sound, for the spell of death

Turns even a laugh to a grin.

Do they wait, and list for the din

Of the cheers and the bells to welcome them in—

For the cheers and the bells to welcome them in?

Do their dead hearts know hopes and fears?

Do they dream of the wives they've not seen for years?—

The wives and the sweethearts who watched them thro' tears

Sail away, sail away, when the wind was south

And the bar was blue at the harbor's mouth,

And the gulls flew low like flakes of snow,

And the summer wind bore the heave-yo-ho

Of the sailors brown

Into the town?

Are they here, the ones so dear?

Alas! the lips that their lips have known,

Alas! the hearts that once beat to their own

Are lying up on the hillside there,

And the daisies and grasses have overgrown

Their graves for many a year.

Yon sentinel pine that watches the graves

Where their wives and sweethearts are laid to rest

The wild winter wind defies and outbraves;

Its roots are sunk in some loved one's breast.

Are their souls at rest?

Sometimes, I think, they must wander down here

To watch for the ships that never will come.

In the silence of night they throng the old pier

To welcome the wanderers home;

Their lustreless eyes—

Enough of death and ghostly tales!

Oh, let the old town keep its vigil there,

Watching for those who were!

What though the dark ship with us sails—

Ah, fools, to freight our hearts with care!

To waste our breath in idle hails,

To cringe and cry.

We live for those who are, not were!—

We live to live, not die!

AN EARLY MOONSET.

Like galleon flying a picaroon,

Along the edge the ship-shap'd moon

Leadeth a star across the sea

To the cloudy harbor under her lee.

With her splendid lading of golden light

She seems to dread the pirate Night;

With puffing sails and fretful oars

She steereth and speedeth for purple shores.

She will anchor to-night beneath the fort

Whose grim guns guard the cloudy port,

Where sound and safe from picaroon

Rides many an olden and golden moon.

ON THE BRIDGE.

Eight bells ring out from the fo'c'sle head;

With a cheery good-eve the mate comes forth,

The second goes off to his welcome bed,

After giving the course as west by north.

As I stand with my chin on the dodger's ridge

And dreamily eye our plunging craft

There's a rattle of heels on the flying bridge

And a gruff report that the watch is aft.

"All right!" says the mate, with a glance below;

"Relieve the wheel and the lookout there!"

And then we begin, with our to and fro,

The walk and the talk we nightly share.

In silence at first—for our pipes are lit—

We pace and puff, and we pause and turn,

And it's up and down, for she rolls a bit

When flying light with the sea astern.

But there's a key in the hands of smoke

That fits a lock in the lazy brain,

And we spring the wards with a quiet joke

And rout out a store of yarns again.

Our voices ring with a pleasant sound,

And now and again it seems to me

As though in the roar that sweeps around

We are joined by the social sea.

And in that strange way that talk is bred—

As a few grains sown bring the wheaty stack—

So something afresh the other said

Put the roaming brain on another tack.

And we boxed about in an aimless way,

With a careless fling from sea to land,

And spoke of the world as a young man may

When he hasn't the time to understand.

We spoke of the land that gave us birth;

We spoke of the one that's home to me:

Those nations destined to shape the earth

To the single state it is to be—

Of tricks we played in our school-boy days;

The fun and frolic of being young;

How we jollied life in a hundred ways

With gibes that pleased and jests that stung.

And of those we loved—for now we knew

With half our life in the dim astern

Which lights were false and which lights were true,

And whose was the hand that bid them burn.

Of the rough hard life the sailor leads,

The pay he gets and the sharks ashore,

And what are the laws our shipping needs,

And the way things went in days of yore.

Of the sailing ship as she yet survives,

Of rigs we never shall see again,

Of inventions that save our seamen's lives

And murder the breed of sailor men.

We talk of these and of many a bout

When a crew came aft for a nasty row—

When loud comes a cry from the fore look-out

Of a light on the starboard bow.

"All right!" the response. Then we train our eyes

On the western rim thro' the closing night.

It's a steamer, sure, by the flash and size—

A liner's electric masthead light.

She rises fast, and is soon up well,

Rushing along 'neath a smoky pall,

A mass of lights like some huge hotel

Ablaze for its annual boarders' ball.

As she grows abeam—for we give her space,

For twenty knots is a right of way—

There's an answering glow on old ocean's face

And a glint on the waves in play.

And I think, as I watch her speed along,

Of the many lives she holds in trust,

And ponder what they would do, that throng,

If Fate should get in a deadly thrust.

A ship like ours or a sunken wreck—

A crash in the dark—some plates stove in—

A frightened rush for the upper deck,

And a clamorous, cowardly din!

How some would die as men should die,

How some would perish in selfish strife,

How some in that hour would dignify

By a noble close a worthless life.

How she whose vigor we oft deride—

The woman—would show her courage then,

And meet her death at her lover's side

In a way to shame the best of men.

But, Science be praised, it is seldom now

We lose a ship by a sudden crash,

For what with the lights and the whistle's row

We luckily dodge a general smash.

And that ship there, as she breasts the swell

And ghosts her side with a foamy ridge,

Has had many a shave—for logs don't tell

All the tales of a steamer's bridge.

In silence we watch her for quite a time

Until she becomes a smoky blear,

Then as ten rings out from the fo'c'sle chime

I go aft to my cheese and my beer.

MISSING.

A cloudless sky, a sleeping sea,

A cold gray reach of shore,

A gleam of sail upon the lee—

And nothing more.

My eyes saw that, my heart saw more:

A woman whose quivering lip

Moulded this sentence o'er and o'er,

"God keep that ship!"

God keep that ship! Her prayer, not mine,

Goes out across the sea

To where beyond the misty line

A face is turned from me.

God keep that ship! Her ship, not mine—

Mine never came back to me.

MAKING LAND.

The fore-royal furled, I pause and I stand,

Both feet on the yard, for a look around,

With eyes that ache for a sight of the land,

For we are homeward bound.

Like a bowl of silver the ocean lies,

Untouched by the fret of a single sail,

And over its edge the billows uprise

And slide before the gale.

I see, close beneath me, the garn's'l bulge,

And half of the tops'l swollen and round

Swells out above, where the bunts divulge

The fores'l's snowy mound.

With a fill and a flap the jibs respond,

As she rolls a-weather, then rolls a-lee,

And her bone as she leaps is thrown beyond

The next o'ertaken sea.

And the hull beneath in its foamy ring

Is narrowed in by the spread of sail,

And the waves as they wash her seem to fling

Their heads above the rail.

And I hear the roar of the passing blast,

And the hiss and gush of the parted sea

Is mixed with the groan of the straining mast,

And the parrel's, che, che, che.

Of the weather deck where the old man strides,

From the break of the poop to the after-rail,

I can catch a glimpse, but all besides

Is hid by swelling sail.

For the wake abaft is shut behind,

Except when she yaws from her helm and throws;

Then like a green lane it seems to wind

Aheap with drifted snows.

But lo! as I gaze the weather clew

Of the topsail lifts to the watch's weight,

And the helmsman comes into perfect view,

And at his side the mate.

As I swing my eyes ahead again

For that one last look ere I drop below,

They catch as she lifts a grayish stain

Athwart the orange glow.

My heart leaps up at the welcome sight,

And I grasp the pole with a firmer hand,

And shading my eyes from the glancing light

Make sure that it is land.

It seems to dance, but I catch it still

As we lift to the sweep of a longer sea—

'Tis the windy top of a far-off hill

Whose shape is known to me.

Then I send a yell to the rolling deck,

And start all hands from their work below;

As I point with a rigid arm at the speck—

The cry comes back, "Land ho!"

And the mate looks up and gives a call,

The old man stops in his clock-like walk,

The watch lets up on the top-sail fall

And takes a spell of talk.

The skipper goes aft to the binnacle, where

He shapes his hand on the compass card,

And takes with a glance the bearing there,

Eying me on the yard.

And I stand with my right arm swinging out,

With a finger true on the dancing speck,

Until on my ears falls the ringing shout:

"All right! Lay down on deck!"

AT PORTSMOUTH

The great ships in the harbour

Sit silent on the tide,

And in the sea beneath them

Their gloomy shadows ride.

There is no life, no beauty,

No grace the heart can feel,

In those irenic monsters—

Those hideous forms of steel.

It is old England's squadron,

Her constant watch and ward—

The bulwark of her freedom,

The Channel's matchless guard.

How different from the frigates

That bore the dauntless Blake;

How different from the liners

That roared in Nelson's wake!

Majestic then and lofty

They towered above the deep,

Bestowing beauty on the main

Their forms were framed to keep.

Sail over sail they offered

Their canvas to the wind,

That mimicked in its whiteness

The wake they swept behind.

No wonder kingly seamen

Were bred in ships like those;

No wonder that they made them

A terror to their foes.

For in the grace and beauty

They shed upon the sea

Man found the inspiration

That kept him brave and free.

And man and ship together

Played well that noble part,

Until their oaken sides became

A symbol for his heart.

But look! where black and formless

Those modern monsters ride

A blot upon the seascape,

A load upon the tide.

Hark! from the massive flagship

Breathes out the morning gun;

Exultant in its mission

Her ensign meets the sun.

From battle-ship and cruiser,

From merchantman and fort,

The cross of red makes glorious

The strong and ancient port.

Then with a heart that follows

I turn my eager eyes

To where at honored moorings

The grand old victor lies.

There floats the same proud bunting

She swept along the breeze

The day that France was broken

And driven from the seas.

There in prophetic splendor

It crowns her shapely spar,

The promise of a future—

The final Trafalgar.

AT ANCHOR.

Sights of sail are caught on the edge—

Black coasters waiting the flood;

Nest of spars that stroke like the sedge

Long rivers of sunset blood.

Gleam of lamps low down in the west,

Gulls crying over the bar,

Sea as still as a child at breast,

Moon following up a star.

That is to-night—and our own to twist

Round memory's finger and hold,

As guerdon for those we've lost or missed

While fretting and fighting for gold.

FROM THE CLIFF.

The wind is fresh, the wind is foul;

The clouds are long and low and gray;

The rocky headland wears a cowl,

And looks a monk who kneels to pray

And tell his beads for parting souls:

While out beyond the bar there rolls

A sullen swell, and white and high

Along the cliffs the breakers fly.

Roar, roar, O Sea! Thy stormy song

Appalls the weak, but nerves the strong.

Look! yonder bark with puffing sail

Has turned her bow to win the sea;

She fears to meet the rising gale

With reef and rockland on her lee.

And as she luffs the blast to greet,

By halyard, clew, and straining sheet,

All, all, alert her seamen stand,

And watch with anxious eye the land.

Roar, roar, O Sea! Thy stormy song

Appalls the weak, but nerves the strong.

Then tack on tack she weathers out—

Her topsails shiver in the wind;

Down goes the helm, she flies about,

And leaping off soon leaves behind

The rocky dangers, and has past

The headland, when the wrathful blast,

Bursts from the cloud and wild and grand

Hurls in the sea against the land.

Roar, roar, O Sea! Thy stormy song

Appalls the weak, but nerves the strong.

THEN AND NOW.

The wind has changed to happy south,

The tide is setting free,

As one by one, past harbor mouth,

Our ships stand out to sea.

We watch them pass, my love and I;

We shout Halloo! from shore.

Good-bye! Good-bye! the sailors cry;

Good-bye! the breakers roar.

The wind has turned to icy north,

Full bitterly it blows;

The sea is wroth, and white with froth,

And no ship comes or goes.

We watch for them, my love and I;

We linger on the shore.

The breakers cry Ho! ho! Good-bye!—

Good-bye for evermore.

THE SHIPS.

Sing the sea, sing the ships,

Sing the sea and its ships,

With the lightness and the brightness

Of the foam about their lips;

When reaching off to seaward,

When running down to leeward,

When beating up to port with the pilot at the fore;

When racing down the Trade,

Or ratching half afraid

With a lookout on the yard for the marks along the shore.

Sing them when you frame them,

Sing them when you name them,

Sing them as you sing the woman whom you love;

For the world of life they lose you,

For the home that they refuse you,

For the sea that deeps beneath them and the sky that crowns above.

Sing them when they leave you,

Sing them when they grieve you,

Going down the harbor with a smoky tug along;

With the yards braced this and that,

And the anchor at the cat,

And the bunting saying good-bye to the watching, waving throng.

Sing them when they need you,

Sing them when they speed you,

With their stems making trouble for the steep Atlantic seas;

When the channel as she rolls

Heaps the foam along the poles,

And the decks fore-and-aft are awash above your knees.

Sing them when they spring you,

Sing them when they wing you,

Rolling down the Trades with a breeze that never shifts;

When the crew they quite forget

What is meant by cold and wet,

And the feel of the braces and the sheets and the lifts.

Sing them when they mock you,

Sing them when they shock you,

Smothered under topsails with the kingly Horn abeam;

When the wind flies round about

And the watch is always out,

And all hands are wishing that they'd signed to go in steam.

Sing the sea, sing the ships,

Sing the sea and its ships,

With the molding and the folding

Of the wave about their form;

Sing them when they teach us,

Sing them when they preach us,

A lesson in the calm and a sermon in the storm.

Sing them when the dying

Wind has left them lying

With the canvas in the brails a-tremble to the rolls;

And the ocean is so still

That you wonder if it will

Give back to her who bore them those legions of lost souls.

Sing the sea, sing the ships,

Sing the sea and its ships,

With the forming and the storming

Of the wave athwart their bows;

Sing them when you clear them,

Sing them when you steer them,

For the strength that they have given

And the courage they arouse.

For the nation that forgets them,

For the nation that regrets them,

Is a nation that is dying as the nations all must die;

For there never yet was state

That met the Roman fate

While she had a ship to guard her and a sailor to stand by.

For the traffic you have won,

For the web that you have spun,

To catch the flies of commerce and the fleeting gnats of trade

Will be rent and blown away,

For the weak will never pay

Their earnings to a people who have stamped themselves afraid.

Pull down the selfish wall!

We are not cowards all!

There are some who dare to struggle with the traders of the world.

Cast off the nation's chain,

And give us back the main,

And the flag that's never absent and the sail that's never furled.

Sing the sea, sing the ships,

Sing the sea and its ships,

With the mounding and the pounding

Of the wave along their sides;

When sailing out and bounding,

When towing in and rounding,

They drop the anxious anchor and they face the swinging tides.

Sing them when you leave them

Sing them when you heave them

To a fast berth, a last berth beside the knackers quay;

For our ships are getting rotten

And our people have forgotten

The mission of the vessel and the glory of the sea.

THE MAN-O'-WAR'S-MAN'S YARN.

Down came the corvette on our weather;

Then thundered our broadsides together.

Thus thus we fought all day;

And when the sun set and evening spread

Across the East her mantle gray,

Under our lee she lay,

Her decks a mass of dead.

Yet at her splintered foremast head

Her ensign laughed,

Lifting and flapping in the draft,

Scorning our shot to bring it down.

Our Captain eyed it with a frown

To hide his admiration—

Hero himself, he heroes knew,

Tho' children of a hated nation.

Then to his weary blood-stained crew

He cried:—

"To your guns once more

And let our broadside roar!"

Then hot and close we plied

Her with shot that tore

Her fore and aft;

Yet still that crimson banner laughed—

Yet still her broken, bleeding men

Gave back our cheers again.

We would have spared them then;

As with fierce and flashing eyes,

With eyes aflame with pride,

We looked upon a foe

Who for twelve hot hours defied

A vessel twice her size.

But Fate thrust in a bloody fist

And gave our hearts a devilish twist.

A random shot that hit our rail

Came from her foremost gun,

And flying in the splinter hail

Struck down the one

Whose voice had shaped and cheered the fray

Thro' all that mad and murderous day.

He fell; and for a space we stood

As though our smoke-grimed forms had turned to wood,

The victims of some deadly spell.

Silence—save for the feverish groans of they

Who, writhing, dying lay—

Was over all; then suddenly there burst a yell

That would have shocked and staggered hell!

Ah! you who sit with me to-night

And talk of war, of might and right;

Had you been there to see that fight,

When, reeling down upon the wreck,

We boarded, leaping on her deck,

And mad with slaughter—mad and blind

With blood of ours, aye, your own kind.

We shot and cut, we slew

The remnant of that dauntless crew;

And when our pikes had struck the last

Tore down that ensign from the mast.

Had you been there, I say, to see

That horror—but, enough for me

To tell, we shuddered at the sight

When in the chill that follows fight

We gazed upon that slaughter pen

And knew those things as fellow-men.

With feverish haste we cleared the deck,

Then fired the slowly sinking wreck,

And cutting loose stood off astern,

And watched her spar and topsides burn

Till suddenly a blinding flash;

A roar. Silence. Here—there—a splash

And all was o'er. We filled our yard,

Though leaking much and laboring hard

Stood up for port, and made at last

The harbor's light. But ho! avast

With tales like this; they breed a thirst—

Another glass—my throat is curs'd

With fire. Here's to the gallant tar

Who talks of peace, yet longs for war;

Who lives to see his ship again

Dispute the glory of the main,

And man for man, and gun for gun,

Meet such another dauntless one.

A FOGGY MORNING.

Seaward driving, like a shriving

Gray monk cloaked in gray,

Thro' the crowded ship-enshrouded,

Buoy-bound reaches of the bay;

Misty moving phantoms proving

Vessels creeping slowly past.

Hark! the droning fog-horn moaning

From the steamer looming vast;

Bell-buoy telling when the swelling

Swell of ocean rocks its boat

Where the ledge's granite edges

Threaten ships that overfloat;

Canvas dripping, dew streams slipping

Down the black and swollen gear;

Helmsman peering at the steering

Compass thro' a watery blear;

Topsails dimming in the swimming

Vapor sea that floats o'erhead,

And the singing seaman swinging

Constantly the pilot lead;

Sun uprising with surprising

Mystic glory haunts the shroud,

Red and rolling thro' the shoaling

Eastward verges of the cloud;

Spars uplifting on the shifting

Billows of the fading mist

Seem suspended on extended

Rippling ropes of amethyst;

Day-star bursting, hotly thirsting,

Drains the fog with fervid lips;

Sunlight flashing shows us dashing

Past the port, the town, the ships.

UNKNOWN.

Lo! when the sun was half dropt in the west,

As wing-weary sea birds seeking their night-rest,

They drifted in upon the harbor's breast.

None knew from whence they came, or where they sailed;

No betraying pennon from their mastheads trailed;

They answered not when they were loudly hailed.

When the day into the night had died

They clustered on the ebbing tide,

Like sleeping sea swans, side by side.

The warders at the midnight hour,

Within the shadow of the tower,

Watched their lanterns rise and lower.

Ere scarce the day and earth had wed,

Their oars on either side they spread,

Shook out their sails and southward fled.

And when the sun shot up across the bay,

Naught showed where they had made their stay,

Save the broken corals where their anchors lay.

So into my heart at eventide

Ofttimes a fleet of dreams will glide,

And all night long at anchor ride.

From whence they come, or where they go,

What pain or joy their forms foreshow,

I dare not ask—I cannot know.

But when dawn breaks o'er sea and mart,

With rippling oars and yearning sails they start,

Leaving their anchor marks upon my heart.

THE COASTERS.

Overloaded, undermanned,

Trusting to a lee;

Playing I-spy with the land,

Jockeying the sea—

That's the way the Coaster goes,

Thro' calm and hurricane:

Everywhere the tide flows,

Everywhere the wind blows,

From Mexico to Maine.

O East and West! O North and South!

We ply along the shore,

From famous Fundy's foggy mouth,

From voes of Labrador;

Thro' pass and strait, on sound and sea,

From port to port we stand—

The rocks of Race fade on our lee,

We hail the Rio Grande.

Our sails are never lost to sight;

On every gulf and bay

They gleam, in winter wind-cloud white,

In summer rain-cloud gray.

We hold the coast with slippery grip;

We dare from cape to cape;

Our leaden fingers feel the dip

And trace the channel's shape.

We sail or bide as serves the tide;

Inshore we cheat its flow,

And side by side at anchor ride

When stormy head-winds blow.

We are the offspring of the shoal,

The hucksters of the sea;

From customs theft and pilot toll,

Thank God that we are free.

Legging on and off the beach,

Drifting up the strait,

Fluking down the river reach,

Towing thro' the Gate—

That's the way the Coaster goes,

Flirting with the gale:

Everywhere the tide flows,

Everywhere the wind blows,

From York to Beavertail.

Here and there to get a load,

Freighting anything;

Running off with spanker stowed,

Loafing wing-a-wing—

That's the way the Coaster goes,

Chumming with the land:

Everywhere the tide flows,

Everywhere the wind blows,

From Ray to Rio Grande.

We split the swell where rings the bell

On many a shallow's edge,

We take our flight past many a light

That guards the deadly ledge,

We greet Montauk across the foam,

We work the Vineyard Sound,

The Diamond sees us running home,

The Georges outward bound;

Absecom hears our canvas beat

When tacked off Brigantine,

We raise the Gulls with lifted sheet,

Pass wing-and-wing between.

Off Monomoy we fight the gale,

We drift off Sandy Key;

The watch of Fenwick sees our sail

Scud for Henlopen's lee.

With decks awash and canvas torn

We wallow up the Stream;

We drag dismasted, cargo borne,

And fright the ships of steam.

Death grips us with his frosty hands

In calm and hurricane;

We spill our bones on fifty sands

From Mexico to Maine.

Cargo reef in main and fore,

Manned by half a crew;

Romping up the weather shore,

Edging down the Blue—

That's the way the Coaster goes.

Scouting with the lead:

Everywhere the tide flows,

Everywhere the wind blows,

From Cruz to Quoddy Head.

TO-DAY.

The sea and the sky are in love to-day,

Their forms are the forms of one;

And ships that sit on the lip of the bay,

Coming and going the other way,

Are sparks in the sparkling sun.

The shape and shadow of yachts that slip

Embayed by the land's long sweep

Are phantoms that cover a phantom ship,

While out on the shoals the summer gulls dip—

To-day is a day asleep.

THE SAILOR OF THE SAIL.

I sing the Sailor of the Sail, breed of the oaken heart,

Who drew the world together and spread our race apart,

Whose conquests are the measure of thrice the ocean's girth,

Whose trophies are the nations that necklace half the earth.

Lord of the Bunt and Gasket and Master of the Yard,

To whom no land was distant, to whom no sea was barred:

Who battled with the current; who conquered with the wind;

Who shaped the course before him by the wake he threw behind;

Who burned in twenty climates; who froze in twenty seas;

Who crept the shore of Labrador and flash'd the Caribbees.

Who followed Drake; who fought with Blake; who broke the bar of Spain,

And who gave to timid traffic the freedom of the main.

Who woke the East; who won the West; who made the North his own;

Who weft his wake in many a fake athwart the Southern zone;

Who drew the thread of commerce through Sunda's rocky strait;

Who faced the fierce Levanter where England holds the gate;

Who saw the frozen mountains draw down the moonlike sun;

Who felt the gale tear at the sail, and ice gnaw at the run;

Who drove the lance of barter through Asia's ancient shield;

Who tore from drowsy China what China dare not yield;

Who searched with Cook and saw him unroll beneath his hand

The last, the strangest continent, the sundered Southern land;

To whom all things were barter—slaves, spices, gold, and gum;

Who gave his life for glory; who sold his soul for rum—

I sing him, and I see him, as only those can see

Who stake their lives to fathom that solveless mystery;

Who on the space of waters have fought the killing gale,

Have heard the crying of the spar, the moaning of the sail;

Who never see the ocean but that they feel its hand

Clutch like a siren at the heart to drag it from the land;

I see him in the running when seas would overwhelm

Lay breathing hard along the yard and sweating at the helm.

I see him at the earing light out the stubborn bands

When every foot of canvas is screeved with bloody hands.

I see him freezing, starving—I see him scurvy curst,

Alone, and slowly dying, locked in that hell of thirst.

I see him drunk and fighting roll through some seaboard town,

When those who own and rob him take to the street and frown.

O Sovereign of the Boundless! O Bondsman of the Wave!

Who made the world dependent, yet lived and died a slave.

In Britain's vast Valhalla, where sleep her worst and best—

Where is the grave she made you—your first and final rest—

Beneath no stone or trophy, beneath no minster tower,

Lie those who gave her Empire, who stretched her arm to power.

Below those markless pathways where commerce shapes the trail,

Unsung, unrung, forgotten, sleeps The Sailor of The Sail.

THE YACHT.

How like a queen she walks the summer sea;

Her canvas crowning well the comely mold

Light loved until it lifts a spire of gold

Outlined and inset by a tracery

Of rig and spar. Hers is a witchery

Of loveliness, that seems to draw and hold

The wind to do its bidding. Fold on fold

The seas charge in; then stricken by the free

Quick lancing of her stem recoil to break

Against the breeze; then rushing back they foam

Along the rail, and swirl into the wake,

And rave astern in many a wrinkled dome.

For thus she doth her windward way betake

Like one who lives to conquer and to roam.

THE TRADE-WIND'S SONG.

Oh, I am the wind that the seamen love—

I am steady, and strong, and true;

They follow my track by the clouds above

O'er the fathomless tropic blue.

For close by the shores of the sunny Azores

Their ships I await to convoy;

When into their sails my constant breath pours

They hail me with turbulent joy.

Oh, I bring them a rest from the tiresome toil

Of trimming the sail to the blast;

For I love to keep gear all snug in the coil

And the sheets and the braces all fast.

From the deck to the truck I pour all my force,

In spanker and jib I am strong;

For I make every course to pull like a horse

And worry the great ship along.

As I fly o'er the blue I sing to the crew,

Who answer me back with a hail;

I whistle a note as I slip by the throat

Of the buoyant and bellying sail.

I laugh when the wave leaps over the head

And the jibs thro' the spray-bow shine,

For an acre of foam is broken and spread

When she shoulders and tosses the brine.

Thro' daylight and dark I follow the bark,

I keep like a hound on her trail;

I'm strongest at noon, yet under the moon

I stiffen the bunt of her sail;

The wide ocean thro' for days I pursue,

Till slowly my forces all wane;

Then in whispers of calm I bid them adieu

And vanish in thunder and rain.

Oh, I am the wind that the seamen love—

I am steady, and strong, and true;

They follow my track by the clouds above

O'er the fathomless tropic blue.

EXECUTION ROCK LIGHT.

Out on its knoll of granite gray,

Old Execution rears its ghostly shaft,

And thro' the night and thro' the day

Speaks cheer to passing craft;

While in the sun they see it gleam

Upon the horizon, miles afar,

And in the dark its changeful beam

Flames out a guiding star.

From year to year, thro' calm and gale,

Across the Sound its warning flare is cast

It cries "All's well!" to steam and sail

And guides them safely past.

One day it hides its form in haze

And seems to sentinel some mystic strand;

The next, it glories in the blaze

Of morning's crimson brand.

And now across the stormy tide

It spires against the sandy bluff, and shows

The front of one who will abide

The shock of lusty blows.

Along its reef the surges roll,

And white with repulse rise and fling their froth

Like snow across the rocky knoll,

Then burst in foamy wrath.

And there it stands, fearless, sedate,

Like some brave knight who scorns to couch his lance

Against the churls, but with his weight

Bears back their wild advance.

THE CARGO BOATS.

I love to see them, laden deep,

Come steaming in from ports afar,

And, slipping past the light-ship, creep

With watchful steps across the bar,

Mauled by the hands of tide and time,

All grimy with their grimy coals,

Their funnels white with salty rime,

And smoky rings about their poles.

Look, now, along the Gedney lane,

With pushing bows comes slowly through

A West of England cargo wain,

With banded stack and star of blue.

There is no beauty in her form;

But when has simple beauty paid

In vessel destined to perform

As Cinderella to the trade?

Go, let her haughty sisters flaunt

Their sightly stems and graceful sheers;

But let her best, her only vaunt,

Be that she is as she appears—

A thing that men have framed to bear

Their merchandise at cheapest rates,

That's safe to pay a pound a share,

And more when there's a boom in freights;

A monster whelped of monster age—

An age that thinks but cannot feel—

Whose Bible is the balanced page,

Whose gods are gods of steam and steel.

In her I love the useful thing—

In her I hate the sailless mast;

For I am one who cares to sing

The glories of the steamless past.

I feel the spirit of the age—

The master splendor of its span—

But make no common with the rage

That lifts the thing above the man.

But useless this—we've learned to make

The word mechanic fit a song;

So let us watch that ship and take

Her picture as she jogs along.

The house-flag hoist; the ensign spread;

The tackles rove; the booms atop;

The deck-gang busy on the head;

The anchor ready for the drop.

Though from this outlook men appear

No bigger than a dancing midge,

I see the pilot standing near

The skipper on the upper bridge.

The telegraph is set "stand by";

The oldest hand is at the wheel;

And down below with watchful eye

The Chief awaits the warning peal.

The engines hiss; the 'scape-pipe roars;

The firemen spread the dusty slack,

And sternward from her funnel pours

A cloud that lingers in her track.

The Hook is past, the buoy abeam;

Then slowly to her helm she turns,

And getting confidence and steam

At full speed up the bay she churns.

Her lean hull shrinks, her spars grow short,

Her trailing flag is scarcely seen,

As slipping past the granite fort

She drops her hook off Quarantine.

And we who watch her turn away

And talk of ships and other things,

The present and the future day,

And what the world will do with wings.

How men will stir with busy hum

The upper main, by wake untraced,

And how the ocean will become

Again a sailless, shipless waste.

THE NOONTIDE CALM.

I.

The azure sky leans on the sea,

Inverting its concavity,

And in the waveless depths below

Re-forms and rolls its cloudy show;

For cloud and cloud are piled to shape

A mountain here, and there a cape,

Until the heavens seem to rest

A cheek upon the ocean's breast,

And listen, with white lips apart,

To catch the beating of its heart.

Fathoms deep, oh, fathoms deep,

Maid and merman lie asleep;

Calm above and calm below;

Sheering to the current's flow,

Vessels red and vessels brown,

Floating, cast a shadow down

On the seafolks' coral town.

II.

Slowly the shadows crawl

Along the wall

Of the sea-king's hall.

The sea-grass curtains thro'

He looks out upon the blue

Glimmering regions that bow down

To the magic of his crown.

Lord of half an ocean, he

Loves to live where rivers three,

Flowing from the windy hills,

Drinkers of a thousand rills,

Pour into the thirsty sea.

There he delights to lie,

Mirroring the lucent sky

In his wild and wondrous eye.

Far, far o'erhead he marks

The swordfish and the sharks

Darting up and floating down;

Sees the porpoise, blue and brown,

Plunge thro' the silver nebula

Of fish;—the herring in dismay

Break, scatter like a starry host

Whose path some errant sun has cross'd.

And he smiles to watch the race

When the merry dolphins chase

A dogfish from his flying prey;

Where the clumsy sea-cows stray,

Herded by the mermen strong,

Who, with lances light and long,

Keep the gaunt sea-wolves at bay.

III.

Shades of vessels that have passed

Rope and sail and yellow mast—

On the seafolks' town are cast;

And the Merking, startled by

Shadows in his crystal sky,

Calls the guard at palace gate,

Where he reigns in ancient state,

Sitting on a coral throne,

With sea-mosses overgrown—

Calls his guard to send a slave

Skyward, soaring thro' the wave,

To command the mariner

To move on. The messenger,

A dolphin bold,

With back of gold,

Swiftly cleaving, swirling, leaving

A flashing trail,

As from each scale

And finny tip

A silver spray of bubbles slip.

Higher, higher rises he,

Till from the surface of the sea

He leaps, and gloriously

Rolls his flashing coat of mail

In the splendor of the day.

Then the sailors trim the sail,

Knowing that the sprightly gale

Cometh when the dolphins play.

Haste away! Haste away!

For the breeze

Frets the seas,

And the rim of opal hue

Burns a green and flames a blue.

THE OLD BUCCANEER'S SONG.

Oh, my heart goes privateering along the Spanish Main,

And I feel the breezes blowing and see those isles again—

Those isles of peace and plenty where we loved to linger long,

To woo the black-eyed Carib maid who sang the rover's song;

Who, resting in the palm shade when the sun was fierce above,

With many a tender measure taught us what indeed is love.

Oh, my heart goes privateering along the Spanish Main,

And I hear my comrades calling me back to them again;

For 'tis where the breakers, roaring, flash in and beat the sand—

'Tis where the feathery plantain shakes its shadow on the strand;

'Neath orange and palmetto and many a flowery tree

Dwell the gallant privateersmen who drink and think of me.

Oh, my heart goes privateering along the Spanish Main—

I see our banners flying and I hear the cheers again:

When with many a reckless comrade in vessel tall and true,

Before the constant trade-wind to the south-and-west we flew,

And ere the haughty Spaniard had thought of danger near

Town and tower and galleon were spoil of buccaneer.

Oh, my heart goes privateering along the Spanish Main,

And many a pearl and red doubloon chink in my hand again.

Back, back unto the sunny isle to rest a season there—

To bind a lace of priceless gems in my sweet Carib's hair,

To feel her arms about my neck, to hear her sing again

The pleasures and the glories of our life along the main.

Oh, my heart goes privateering along the Spanish Main,

For I am weary waiting for those days to come again.

A curse upon this slothful life and this black northern land!

Oh, give to me the sapphire sea and southern strand!

Oh, let me hear but once again my comrades' ringing cheers,

And lead to spoil and victory the dashing buccaneers.

THE BELFRY OF THE SEA.

Men who bless them

And caress them—

Bells that call upon the land—

Curse and chide them,

Mock, deride them,

When they shout above a sand.

Not alone are bells thus treated,

For the story is repeated

In the world of every day;

He who flings us—

He who brings us—

Joys and pleasures all may share,

Has our blessings for his pay;

But he who warns us—

He who mourns us,

Bids us to the watch and ware—

Has our curses,

And reverses

In the moulds that mint our prayer.

O singer of the sailor's song,

Fear not to sing me broad and strong—

Fear not to sing me in the van

Of those who stand and strive for man;

And if they make the question, then

Come tell me what man does for men.

I am the Belfry of the Sea,

The rider of the swell,

The guardsman of the deadly lee,

The outer sentinel.

Man placed me here to watch this sand—

This sneaking, shifting shoal—

He shaped me with a clever hand,

So that my bell doth toll

With every move and motion

Of the changeful, changeless ocean.

Mine is a thankless task;

But no recompense I ask.

I am hated by the shoal;

I am hated by the sea;

And the very fish that bask

In the shadow of my cask

Are half afraid of me.

The land wind speaks me fair,

For it has no thought or care

With the deeds that are done

In the midnight and the gale;

And it bears me on its wing

A welcome offering

Of the shouting of the upland

And the chatter of the shale.

But most I love the weather

When the wind and sea together

Lie locked in summer slumber

And the sky sleeps overhead,

For then I ease the strain

On my anchor and my chain,

And ring a muffled service

For my shattered, scattered dead.

I am never wholly sad;

I am never wholly glad;

For my sadness is half madness

And my gladness is half sadness

For the remnants of the wrecks

That lie below me cast

A gloom upon the wave,

And my sunny days are past

Sleeping in the shadow

That is shaken from a grave.

'Twas not I who betrayed them;

'Twas not I who waylaid them;

But they died with curses for me

On their water-wasted lips.

I did my best to save them

The warning that I gave them

Is the warning that has succored

Ten thousand watchful ships.

Ah, had they used the lead!

Ah, had they tacked instead

Of standing blindly onward

Without a watch for me!

They would have heard me tolling;

They would have seen me rolling;

And have had a chance to weather

And gain the open sea.

For I mark a dreaded danger

To the coaster and the stranger,

For my friend below is silent

And shows no foamy chain.

Not like the sunken ledge;

Not like the reefs that wedge

The surges from the undergrip

And hurl them out again.

For the reef it warns the ship

By the frothing and the snowing

Of its rocky underlip;

For it shows its broken teeth,

And it bares the bone beneath,

And roars sometimes in anger,

And it cries sometimes in grief.

But this sluggish and this sucking spread of sand

It is dead to ear and eye;

And its very bounds defy

The laws that keep in order

The stout and stable land.

It changes every storm;

And I never know its form—

I who gird and guard it

With my constant clanging bell—

It scarcely gives me hold

For my anchor in its mold;

And we shift and change together

With each mighty, moving swell.

But I rob it of its prey,

For the ships have time to stay,

When the wind takes up my music

And bears it out to sea;

But when the Easters roar

And drive upon the shore

My loudest cry of warning

Is tossed and lost a-lee.

Then, then I cry in anger,

And the clanging and the clangor

Shake and shock the bars

Of my tossing, toiling cage;

And I curse the wind and sea,

And the chain that's under me

Strains its links and surges

With the transports of my rage.

For I know I cannot save them;

And the shoal that thinks to grave them—

That will feed its thousand acres

On their oaken frames and sides—

It seems to mound its spread,

It seems to lift its head,

As though to make more deadly

The tangle of its tides.

In the snow, in the fog,

When the sharpest eyes are blind;

When the ocean

Has scarce motion,

And the wind

Has forsaken;

When my power of speech is taken,

And I sit in silent pain;

When I toil and toil in vain

To force the larum note

From the muscles of my throat,

And it only breathes a toll

That dies upon the shoal;

And I strive and I writhe

With the pain of action palsied

By a force beyond control.

When I cannot see or hear them;

When I cannot warn or cheer them;

And only know that they are there

By the throbbing of my soul.

For I know that they will blame me;

For I know that they will name me

With the bitterest of curses

For the silence of my note,

And I stoop and pray the sea

To lend its aid to me;

But it mocks me with a ripple

That scarcely wets my float.

And then I hear them calling,

As slowly, slowly crawling

They come working in from seaward

With their whistles crying where?

And I try to answer back

That I'm lying in the track;

But the loudest cry I make them

Is a thread upon the air.

Swing—swing—

Ring—ring—

Roll—roll—

Toll—toll—

Just a thing

Without a soul,

Doing its duty on the shoal;

Just a bell

That sea and swell

In their fury, in their play,

Set a throbbing,

And a sobbing;

By their very madness robbing—

By their rage and rush defeating,

By their hate and hurry cheating—

Ocean of its prey.

Swing—swing—

Ring—ring—

Roll—roll—

Toll—toll.

PHANTOMS.

Like a tide that runs increasing,

Bearing ships to port again,

There's a tide that brings unceasing

Pleasures to my restless brain.

When at night I sit and swinging

Idly to a strain of thought,

Then it flows, resistless, bringing

Countless tales with pleasure fraught.

And it seems as though the olden

Stories of the mystic sea

Came like ships to bear their golden,

Precious cargoes unto me.

For I hail with deep emotion

All those gray and ghostly forms,

Phantoms of the shoreless ocean

That is swept by constant storms.

And I see from mist-enshrouded,

Ancient, half-forgotten tales

Galleons rise, and memory clouded,

Pass with faint and formless sails.

Others come, the tall and splendid

Monarchs of the oaken side,

Who, with master arms, contended

For the empire of the tide.

One by one they pass in glory—

Stately shapes that led the van—

Builders of the ocean's story,

Noblest gift of man to man.

And not less the worn and shattered,

Drifting, find my port at last.

All the stranded, stove, and battered

Victims of the wave and blast,

They are mine by right of capture:

Buccaneer and ship of plate;

And I search their holds with rapture

Till the night grows cold and late;

Till the moon, high-prowed and dipping,

Like a ship of ancient worth,

Leaves her cloudy port and slipping,

Spins her wake across the earth.

And the wind, to peace consenting,

Breathes a hymn above the land;

And the ocean, half repenting,

Kneels in prayer along the sand.

FLOTSAM.

For the tide runs in and the tide runs out,

And the women they talk and wait,

For hope has a soul that is built of doubt,

And our ships are ofttimes late.

And the tide runs up and the tide runs down,

And the drift goes floating past;

A message it bears to the waiting town

In form of a broken mast.

Look! no seaweed yellows its shattered ends!

No shell-fish whiten its girth!

'Tis a message, they cry, old Ocean sends

To those they have left on earth!

And the tide runs up and the tide runs down,

And the sea reclaims its toll;

But the hopes that live in that stricken town

Are those hopes that have no soul.

THE LOST SHIP.

Who saw the ship going down to the sea

With her topsails sheeted home, and her spanker

Swelling like a course, foam along the lee,

And the crew on the tackle of the anchor?

Who saw her running off from the land,

Wind blowing strong, steering true for the light-ship,

But went away wishing he might command

Some future day such a tall, such a tight ship?

Came she never back again to that port?

Long did they wait, watching out at eve and morn.

Last was she seen hove-to with canvas short

By an eastward bounder scudding past the Horn.

Who saw her sink that midnight in the storm?

Where does she lie, rig-tangled and hull-broken?

Sails she, perhaps, a ghostly, gliding form,

That silent sea where ships are never spoken?

THE MAIN-SHEET SONG.

Rushing along on a narrow reach,

Our rival under the lee,

The wind falls foul of the weather leach,

And the jib flaps fretfully.

The skipper casts a glance along,

And handles his wheel to meet—

Then sings in the voice of a stormy song,

"All hands get on that sheet!"

Yo ha! Yo ho! Then give her a spill,

With a rattle of blocks abaft.

Yo ha! Yo ho! Come down with a will

And bring the main-sheet aft.

Rolling the foam up over the rail

She smokes along and flings

A spurt of spray in the curving sail,

And plunges and rolls and springs;

For a wild, wet spot is the scuppers' sweep,

As we stand to our knees along—

It's a foot to make and a foot to keep

As we surge to the bullie's song.

Yo ha! Yo ho! Then give her a spill

With a rattle of blocks abaft.

Yo ha! Yo ho! Come down with a will

And bring the main-sheet aft.

Muscle and mind are a winning pair

With a lively plank below,

That whether the wind be foul or fair

Will pick up her heels and go;

For old hemp and hands are shipmates long—

There's work whenever they meet—

So here's to a pull that's steady and strong,

When all hands get on the sheet.

Yo ha! Yo ho! Then give her a spill

With a rattle of blocks abaft.

Yo ha! Yo ho! Come down with a will

And bring the main-sheet aft.

THE LANDFALL

The scent of the soil is strong on the breeze,

The gulls are many and shrill,

And over the crest of the cresting seas

Is floating a rosy hill;

And right at the base of this filmy shape,

Just clear of the weather shroud,

Say, is it ship, or is it a cape,

Or a hard spot in the cloud?

But hark! from aloft where the seaman swings,

And points with an eager hand,

Then fore and aft the glad cry rings—

Land, ho, land!

THE CLIPPER.

Her sails are strong and yellow as the sand,

Her spars are tall and supple as the pine,

And, like the bounty of a generous mine,

Sun-touched, her brasses flash on every hand.

Her sheer takes beauty from a golden band,

Which, sweeping aft, is taught to twist and twine

Into a scroll, and badge of quaint design

Hang on her quarters. Insolent and grand

She drives. Her stem rings loudly as it throws

The hissing sapphire into foamy waves,

While on her weather bends the copper glows

In burnished splendor. Rolling down she laves

Her high black sides until the scupper flows,

Then pushing out her shapely bow she braves

The next tall sea, and, leaping, onward goes.

THE CONSTITUTION.

Where Glory dwells a hundred years,

That spot becomes a shrine,

The very soil she trod appears

To bear the touch divine;

The rusted gun, the shattered blade,

Are kept with sacred hand,

And Honor bows before the shade

That fought to save the land.

Then why neglect—why give to rot

This victor of the flood?

Is she less holy than the spot

That drank a hero's blood?

Has she no plume to wing a thought—

No spark to fire a mind?

In names like her's such deeds are wrought

As glorify mankind.

And they, whose mighty banner fell

Before her lightning's blast,

Their victor rides the harbor swell

Unshorn of yard and mast;

And Glory gilds her like a sun,

When, steaming thro' the wave,

With dipping flag and rapid gun,

The brave salute the brave.

Then give ours back, the sail, the spar—

Go let her broadside roar!

A gun for every glit'ring star

Her conquering ensign bore.

To show ye have not held in vain

The heritage she kept,

Oh, let her image grace again

The sea she proudly swept!

THE TARTAR.

The wind from East to South has shifted,

The sea's gone down and the clouds are rifted,

And broad on the larboard bow are seen

A full-rigged ship and a brigantine,

With a topsail schooner in between—

All bound to London Town.

The ship with a golden freight is freighted,

The old brigantine with coal is weighted,

The schooner's a slippery privateer,

With roguish rig and a saucy sheer—

Her cargo is guns and hearts of cheer—

All bound to London Town.

A Frenchman out of old Brest is cruising,

"A chance," says he, "there's no refusing.

I will drive that privateer away;

The ship and the brig will be my prey,

For we don't meet prizes every day—

All bound to London Town."

Then, crowding sail, on the wind he hurried;

The ship and the brig they worried and scurried.

The privateer, with her canvas short,

Just showed a muzzle at every port,

For she'd a crew of the fighting sort—

When bound to London Town.

The Frenchman tacked the weather gauge after;

The privateer cut the sea abaft her;

Before she had time to ease a turn

They drove a broadside into her stern,

For fighting's a trade one's apt to learn—

When bound to London Town.

Then side by side with their guns they pounded,

Till catching a puff the schooner rounded,

And ere they had way to do the like,

She laid them aboard with blade and pike,

So what could the Brestman do but strike—

And go to London Town?

The wind from East to the South has shifted,

The sea's gone down and the clouds are rifted,

And broad on the larboard bow are seen

A privateer and a brigantine,

With a captured Frenchman in between—

All bound to London Town.

WARNING.

When the old moon hangs to the cloud's gray tail

And the stars play in and out;

When the East grows red and the West looks pale

And the wind goes knocking about;

When over the edge of the shapeless coast,

Where the horizon bites the cloud,

The rack of the rain stalks in like a ghost

And a sail blows through its shroud—

When the morn is such, of the noon beware!

For this calm's a stormy feint:

A reef in the sail is better than prayer,

For a snug ship needs no saint.

IN SEPTEMBER.

Oh, the wind, the wind,

And the white wake behind;

And the land

Of yellow sand,

Looming like a band

Of gold along the rim;

And the laughter of the sea,

And the sense of mystery,

In the dim

Stretch of lee,

Where the haze

In the blaze

Of heat seems to meet

The sky.

Oh, the happy sails that fly

To the east, to the south,

And the light-house at the mouth

Of the bay

With its gray

Granite spire

Bold against the higher

Lift o' green,

And a smoky tug-boat's trail

Flaunting like a tail

Of stormy cloud,

And a steamer in between

With her paddles whirring round.

Oh, a day upon the Sound,

With the wind, the wind,

Coming out behind,

And the feeling of content

That is lent

To the mind,

When the sailing breeze is fair,

And your only thought or care

Is to keep

The sails asleep,

And run,

Until the sun

Drops in the West—

Then rest is best.

THE HOMEWARD BOUNDER'S SONG.

There's many a ship with taller mast,

There's many of squarer yard,

There's many a one that sails as fast

And many that roll as hard;

With decks as white, with paint as bright,

With hull as staunch and sound;

But never ship that steers so light

As the ship that's homeward bound!

Then give her a spoke, and keep her west,

Hurrah, for the world is round!

And here's to the ship that steers the best—

Hurrah for the homeward bound!

There's many a port in distant land

And many a splendid sight,

Where turret slim and palace grand

Rise skyward tall and white;

Where castles rear, and far and near

Shines many a golden dome;

But never sight that's half so dear

As the dear old port at home.

Then give her a spoke, and keep her west,

Hurrah for a breeze astern!

And here's to the port we love the best—

The port where the twin-lights burn!

There's many a maid of fashion rare

In warm and palmy lands,

With sea-deep eyes and night-black hair

And brown and shapely hands;

With lips as red as ever led

The heart of a man to roam,

But never one we'd take instead

Of the girl that waits at home.

Then give her a spoke and keep her west,

Hurrah for a wake of foam!

And here's to the girl we love the best—

The girl that we leave at home.

THE SPELL OF THE SEA.

By the sea I sit and dream

Of things that have passed, and now

Are fading as fades the gleam

Of sail on the ocean's brow,

And I hear that song again

She sang to the world before

Men had crossed her glit'ring plain

To die on the further shore.

'Tis a song that, like the wind

In a stormy counterpart,

Rouses and rolls the restless mind,

Till it breaks against the heart—

Till it hurls its foam amain

On the reefs which gird that lee—

And the heart is swept again

By that yearning for the sea.

Ah, the sea it sings that song

Whenever the moon is full—

Whenever the wind is strong,

And the tides are bountiful—

And it throws a spell o'er one

That my heart cannot withstand,

So clearly do I foresee

That I shall not die on land.

DAYS OF OAK.

I.

When ship met ship in olden days,

With battle banners flaunting,

From stem to stern the cannon's blaze

A fiery challenge vaunting—

Then man fought man, as brave men should,

To keep those walls of native wood.

II.

When broadsides roaring swept the deck,

And crews were madly cheering;

When sail and spar were shot to wreck,

And ships were swiftly nearing;

Then men faced death, as brave men should,

Behind their walls of native wood.

III.

When face to face and hand to hand—

When boarders' blades were flashing;

When bloody pikes made desperate stand,

And pistol balls were crashing—

Then man fought man, as brave men should,

To keep those walls of native wood.

IV.

When valiant arms prevailed at last,

The foe for quarter crying,

The dying seaman eyed the mast,

And cheered his colors flying—

For men met death, as brave men should,

Behind their walls of native wood.

LONG, LONG AGO.

As slow our boat the water thro'

Is stealing on the breeze,

The curving sky a tender blue,

A deeper blue the seas;

We mark whereon the western edge

A band of coast is seen,

Where juts the cape and slopes the ledge,

A port is shut between.

On either side a sudden rise

Of black and broken rock

Thrusts out an arm that well defies

The frantic ocean's shock;

And from its point the sunken reef

Runs out a mile or more,

Where many a ship has come to grief

When breaking breakers roar.

Long, long ago, in sudden wrath

A storm burst on this land;

It caught a fleet within its path—

An admiral in command.

For three black days they fought the gale,

Then one by one they wore—

And reft of spar and stripped of sail

Went smashing on that shore.

Where red and rough the land-slip beach

Is touched by tiny waves—

Beyond the winter breaker's reach

They dug their shallow graves;

And with a prayer that half expressed

The sorrow that they knew,

They laid the admiral there to rest

Surrounded by his crew.

But, ah, to-day is sweet—and lo,

The ocean is at rest,

Save for a breathing low and slow

Of wind across its breast.

Far out beyond the cloudy forms

Are anchored on the edge—

It is no time to talk of storms,

Of wrecks upon the ledge.

WIND HAPPY SHIPS.

Wind happy ships, that rise and make

Across the gaping bay,

To dance like bubbles in the wake

Of westward flying day.

So quick they rise, so swift they flow,

So bright their topsails gleam,

They seem to come, and come and go

Like joy-thoughts in a dream.

Wind happy ships, in constant flight

Across the sloping main,

That thro' the dark and thro' the light

Sail on and on again.

A port ye have, I know not where—

'Tis far beyond my world—

But pray some day may find you there

With all your canvas furled.

THE QUEST.

My carrack rides the wave below,

The castle glooms above—

"Now who will sail the sea with me,

To find the man I love?"

Three pilots tall sit in the hall,

And drink my father's ale—

"Now one of three must go with me,

This ship of mine to sail."

Deep, deep they quaffed, and quaffing,

Struck the board with tankard chine—

"Now in what port, to East or West,

Dwells this true love of thine?"

"I seek no port to East or West,

But down beyond the rim,

By following far the falling star,

My ship will come to him.

"He rules a land of surfless shores,

Of deep enchanted bays;

Where time is twice as long again,

And half the nights are days;

"Where dreams are dreamt with open eyes;

Where love forbears to change;

And all that's new is old and sweet,

And all that's old is strange."

Loud, loud they laughed, and laughing,

Blew the foam from bearded lips

As blows the gale the whiter foam

From the bows of plunging ships.

Then up and spake the youngest one—

And laughter seamed his cheek—

"There is no port beyond the rim,

Such as the port you seek.

"The sea is wide, and isles may hide

Unknown to pilot's eye;

But this, methink, lies on the brink,

When glows the ev'ning sky:

"A vapory shore that fades before

The swift-advancing stars;

Where rides the moon on blue lagoon

Embayed by golden bars."

He ceased; and the boisterous laughter

Rose rumbling thro' the hall.

It swept like a gale among the mail,

And the banners shook like shivered sail,

As it rolled from wall to wall.

Then up and spake the second one:

"I fear not wind nor wave;

But this soft clime of twice-long time

Must lie beyond the grave.

"No seaman's skill, no pilot's art,

May find that port, I ween,

For God alone doth read the chart

Of that dark sea between.

"And though I serve my Lord and King

With head, and heart, and hand,

I will not make, for woman's sake,

A voyage to find that land!"

They laughed, but they laughed less lightly,

As though they felt their breath,

And cheered the jest to free the breast

From ugly thoughts of death.

The maiden stepp'd three paces back,

But nothing did she say—

She turned her eyes upon the west,

She signed the cross upon her breast,

Then bent her knee to pray.

Dear heart, but it was beautiful

To hear that maiden's prayer!

So strong of faith, so rich with love—

It seem'd as though the sun above

Slipp'd down to drink its share.

And the saint on the window painted

Looked down on her bended head,

As a father who lingers watching

Soft breathed above the dead—

Looked down from the glowing casement,

From the sun-lit crimson glass—

Then followed a murmur of whispered prayer,

And a silence descended unaware,

Like the silence of the mass.

Then up she rose like one refreshed,

Who bendeth o'er a stream

And drinketh deep, and in her eyes

There shone the light that mocks the wise

And maketh doubt a dream.

Then up she rose as one refreshed

And spake but once again:

"If you trust your heart above your art

Our search will not be vain."

Then stood and spake the oldest one:

"My eyes are true and keen,

And I have sailed for four-score years

Wherever ship hath been.

"From East to West, from North to South,

With every wind that blows,

I know no land beyond the rim

Where boundless bays repose;

"Where sleeps the sea along the strand

Of sky-like slopes that wear

So rich a light the very night

Forgets to linger there.

"It seems to me, if such there be,

No man could pass it by;

And I will make, for thy dear sake,

This voyage before I die.

"And if I fail that port to hail,

God fend my soul. Oh, pray!

The task I take for love's sweet sake

May wash some sins away."

Transcriber's note:

The original book used hyphens inconsistently. The inconsistencies have been preserved.

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Table of Contents

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Songs of Sea and Sail, by Thomas Fleming Day

Songs of Sea and Sail

CONTENTS.

THE MERMAID'S SONG.

TRAFALGAR, 1805.

WHEN.

THE FORSAKEN PORT.

AN EARLY MOONSET.

ON THE BRIDGE.

MISSING.

MAKING LAND.

AT PORTSMOUTH

AT ANCHOR.

FROM THE CLIFF.

THEN AND NOW.

THE SHIPS.

THE MAN-O'-WAR'S-MAN'S YARN.

UNKNOWN.

THE COASTERS.

TO-DAY.

THE SAILOR OF THE SAIL.

THE YACHT.

THE TRADE-WIND'S SONG.

EXECUTION ROCK LIGHT.

THE CARGO BOATS.

THE NOONTIDE CALM.

I.

II.

III.

THE OLD BUCCANEER'S SONG.

THE BELFRY OF THE SEA.

PHANTOMS.

FLOTSAM.

THE LOST SHIP.

THE MAIN-SHEET SONG.

THE LANDFALL

THE CLIPPER.

THE CONSTITUTION.

THE TARTAR.

WARNING.

IN SEPTEMBER.

THE HOMEWARD BOUNDER'S SONG.

THE SPELL OF THE SEA.

DAYS OF OAK.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

LONG, LONG AGO.

WIND HAPPY SHIPS.

THE QUEST.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE