PHANTOMS.Like a tide that runs increasing,Bearing ships to port again,There's a tide that brings unceasingPleasures to my restless brain.When at night I sit and swingingIdly to a strain of thought,Then it flows, resistless, bringingCountless tales with pleasure fraught.And it seems as though the oldenStories of the mystic seaCame like ships to bear their golden,Precious cargoes unto me.For I hail with deep emotionAll those gray and ghostly forms,Phantoms of the shoreless oceanThat is swept by constant storms.And I see from mist-enshrouded,Ancient, half-forgotten talesGalleons rise, and memory clouded,Pass with faint and formless sails.Others come, the tall and splendidMonarchs of the oaken side,Who, with master arms, contendedFor 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 batteredVictims of the wave and blast,They are mine by right of capture:Buccaneer and ship of plate;And I search their holds with raptureTill 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 townIn 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 sendsTo 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 townAre those hopes that have no soul.THE LOST SHIP.Who saw the ship going down to the seaWith her topsails sheeted home, and her spankerSwelling 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 commandSome 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 shortBy 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 willAnd bring the main-sheet aft.Rolling the foam up over the railShe smokes along and flingsA 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 keepAs we surge to the bullie's song.Yo ha! Yo ho! Then give her a spillWith a rattle of blocks abaft.Yo ha! Yo ho! Come down with a willAnd bring the main-sheet aft.Muscle and mind are a winning pairWith a lively plank below,That whether the wind be foul or fairWill 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 spillWith a rattle of blocks abaft.Yo ha! Yo ho! Come down with a willAnd bring the main-sheet aft.THE LANDFALLThe scent of the soil is strong on the breeze,The gulls are many and shrill,And over the crest of the cresting seasIs 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 twineInto a scroll, and badge of quaint designHang on her quarters. Insolent and grandShe drives. Her stem rings loudly as it throwsThe hissing sapphire into foamy waves,While on her weather bends the copper glowsIn burnished splendor. Rolling down she lavesHer high black sides until the scupper flows,Then pushing out her shapely bow she bravesThe 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 appearsTo bear the touch divine;The rusted gun, the shattered blade,Are kept with sacred hand,And Honor bows before the shadeThat fought to save the land.Then why neglect—why give to rotThis victor of the flood?Is she less holy than the spotThat 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 wroughtAs glorify mankind.And they, whose mighty banner fellBefore her lightning's blast,Their victor rides the harbor swellUnshorn 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 starHer conquering ensign bore.To show ye have not held in vainThe heritage she kept,Oh, let her image grace againThe 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 seenA 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 turnThey 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 seenA 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 tailAnd the stars play in and out;When the East grows red and the West looks paleAnd 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 ghostAnd 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 landOf yellow sand,Looming like a bandOf gold along the rim;And the laughter of the sea,And the sense of mystery,In the dimStretch of lee,Where the hazeIn the blazeOf heat seems to meetThe sky.Oh, the happy sails that flyTo the east, to the south,And the light-house at the mouthOf the bayWith its grayGranite spireBold against the higherLift o' green,And a smoky tug-boat's trailFlaunting like a tailOf stormy cloud,And a steamer in betweenWith her paddles whirring round.Oh, a day upon the Sound,With the wind, the wind,Coming out behind,And the feeling of contentThat is lentTo the mind,When the sailing breeze is fair,And your only thought or careIs to keepThe sails asleep,And run,Until the sunDrops 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 fastAnd 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 lightAs 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 landAnd many a splendid sight,Where turret slim and palace grandRise skyward tall and white;Where castles rear, and far and nearShines many a golden dome;But never sight that's half so dearAs 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 rareIn warm and palmy lands,With sea-deep eyes and night-black hairAnd brown and shapely hands;With lips as red as ever ledThe heart of a man to roam,But never one we'd take insteadOf 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 dreamOf things that have passed, and nowAre fading as fades the gleamOf sail on the ocean's brow,And I hear that song againShe sang to the world beforeMen had crossed her glit'ring plainTo die on the further shore.'Tis a song that, like the windIn a stormy counterpart,Rouses and rolls the restless mind,Till it breaks against the heart—Till it hurls its foam amainOn the reefs which gird that lee—And the heart is swept againBy that yearning for the sea.Ah, the sea it sings that songWhenever the moon is full—Whenever the wind is strong,And the tides are bountiful—And it throws a spell o'er oneThat my heart cannot withstand,So clearly do I foreseeThat 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 blazeA 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 edgeA band of coast is seen,Where juts the cape and slopes the ledge,A port is shut between.On either side a sudden riseOf black and broken rockThrusts out an arm that well defiesThe frantic ocean's shock;And from its point the sunken reefRuns out a mile or more,Where many a ship has come to griefWhen breaking breakers roar.Long, long ago, in sudden wrathA 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 sailWent smashing on that shore.Where red and rough the land-slip beachIs touched by tiny waves—Beyond the winter breaker's reachThey dug their shallow graves;And with a prayer that half expressedThe sorrow that they knew,They laid the admiral there to restSurrounded by his crew.But, ah, to-day is sweet—and lo,The ocean is at rest,Save for a breathing low and slowOf wind across its breast.Far out beyond the cloudy formsAre 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 makeAcross the gaping bay,To dance like bubbles in the wakeOf westward flying day.So quick they rise, so swift they flow,So bright their topsails gleam,They seem to come, and come and goLike joy-thoughts in a dream.Wind happy ships, in constant flightAcross the sloping main,That thro' the dark and thro' the lightSail on and on again.A port ye have, I know not where—'Tis far beyond my world—But pray some day may find you thereWith 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 lipsAs blows the gale the whiter foamFrom 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 hideUnknown to pilot's eye;But this, methink, lies on the brink,When glows the ev'ning sky:"A vapory shore that fades beforeThe swift-advancing stars;Where rides the moon on blue lagoonEmbayed by golden bars."He ceased; and the boisterous laughterRose 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 timeMust lie beyond the grave."No seaman's skill, no pilot's art,May find that port, I ween,For God alone doth read the chartOf that dark sea between."And though I serve my Lord and KingWith 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 breastFrom 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 beautifulTo hear that maiden's prayer!So strong of faith, so rich with love—It seem'd as though the sun aboveSlipp'd down to drink its share.And the saint on the window paintedLooked down on her bended head,As a father who lingers watchingSoft 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 streamAnd drinketh deep, and in her eyesThere shone the light that mocks the wiseAnd maketh doubt a dream.Then up she rose as one refreshedAnd spake but once again:"If you trust your heart above your artOur 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 yearsWherever ship hath been."From East to West, from North to South,With every wind that blows,I know no land beyond the rim