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 handThe 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 seeWho 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 handClutch like a siren at the heart to drag it from the land;I see him in the running when seas would overwhelmLay breathing hard along the yard and sweating at the helm.I see him at the earing light out the stubborn bandsWhen 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 moldLight loved until it lifts a spire of goldOutlined and inset by a traceryOf rig and spar. Hers is a witcheryOf loveliness, that seems to draw and holdThe wind to do its bidding. Fold on foldThe seas charge in; then stricken by the freeQuick lancing of her stem recoil to breakAgainst the breeze; then rushing back they foamAlong the rail, and swirl into the wake,And rave astern in many a wrinkled dome.For thus she doth her windward way betakeLike 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 aboveO'er the fathomless tropic blue.For close by the shores of the sunny AzoresTheir ships I await to convoy;When into their sails my constant breath poursThey hail me with turbulent joy.Oh, I bring them a rest from the tiresome toilOf trimming the sail to the blast;For I love to keep gear all snug in the coilAnd 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 horseAnd 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 throatOf the buoyant and bellying sail.I laugh when the wave leaps over the headAnd the jibs thro' the spray-bow shine,For an acre of foam is broken and spreadWhen 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 moonI 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 adieuAnd 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 aboveO'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 daySpeaks cheer to passing craft;While in the sun they see it gleamUpon the horizon, miles afar,And in the dark its changeful beamFlames out a guiding star.From year to year, thro' calm and gale,Across the Sound its warning flare is castIt cries "All's well!" to steam and sailAnd guides them safely past.One day it hides its form in hazeAnd seems to sentinel some mystic strand;The next, it glories in the blazeOf morning's crimson brand.And now across the stormy tideIt spires against the sandy bluff, and showsThe front of one who will abideThe shock of lusty blows.Along its reef the surges roll,And white with repulse rise and fling their frothLike 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 lanceAgainst the churls, but with his weightBears 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, creepWith 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 throughA West of England cargo wain,With banded stack and star of blue.There is no beauty in her form;But when has simple beauty paidIn vessel destined to performAs Cinderella to the trade?Go, let her haughty sisters flauntTheir 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 bearTheir 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 singThe glories of the steamless past.I feel the spirit of the age—The master splendor of its span—But make no common with the rageThat lifts the thing above the man.But useless this—we've learned to makeThe wordmechanicfit a song;So let us watch that ship and takeHer 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 appearNo bigger than a dancing midge,I see the pilot standing nearThe skipper on the upper bridge.The telegraph is set "stand by";The oldest hand is at the wheel;And down below with watchful eyeThe Chief awaits the warning peal.The engines hiss; the 'scape-pipe roars;The firemen spread the dusty slack,And sternward from her funnel poursA cloud that lingers in her track.The Hook is past, the buoy abeam;Then slowly to her helm she turns,And getting confidence and steamAt 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 fortShe drops her hook off Quarantine.And we who watch her turn awayAnd 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 humThe upper main, by wake untraced,And how the ocean will becomeAgain a sailless, shipless waste.THE NOONTIDE CALM.I.The azure sky leans on the sea,Inverting its concavity,And in the waveless depths belowRe-forms and rolls its cloudy show;For cloud and cloud are piled to shapeA mountain here, and there a cape,Until the heavens seem to restA 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 downOn the seafolks' coral town.II.Slowly the shadows crawlAlong the wallOf the sea-king's hall.The sea-grass curtains thro'He looks out upon the blueGlimmering regions that bow downTo the magic of his crown.Lord of half an ocean, heLoves 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 skyIn his wild and wondrous eye.Far, far o'erhead he marksThe swordfish and the sharksDarting up and floating down;Sees the porpoise, blue and brown,Plunge thro' the silver nebulaOf fish;—the herring in dismayBreak, scatter like a starry hostWhose path some errant sun has cross'd.And he smiles to watch the raceWhen the merry dolphins chaseA 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 passedRope and sail and yellow mast—On the seafolks' town are cast;And the Merking, startled byShadows 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 slaveSkyward, soaring thro' the wave,To command the marinerTo move on. The messenger,A dolphin bold,With back of gold,Swiftly cleaving, swirling, leavingA flashing trail,As from each scaleAnd finny tipA silver spray of bubbles slip.Higher, higher rises he,Till from the surface of the seaHe leaps, and gloriouslyRolls his flashing coat of mailIn the splendor of the day.Then the sailors trim the sail,Knowing that the sprightly galeCometh when the dolphins play.Haste away! Haste away!For the breezeFrets the seas,And the rim of opal hueBurns 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 treeDwell 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 nearTown 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 againThe 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 themAnd 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 repeatedIn 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 reversesIn 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 vanOf those who stand and strive for man;And if they make the question, thenCome 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 tollWith every move and motionOf 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 baskIn the shadow of my caskAre half afraid of me.The land wind speaks me fair,For it has no thought or careWith the deeds that are doneIn the midnight and the gale;And it bears me on its wingA welcome offeringOf the shouting of the uplandAnd the chatter of the shale.But most I love the weatherWhen the wind and sea togetherLie locked in summer slumberAnd the sky sleeps overhead,For then I ease the strainOn my anchor and my chain,And ring a muffled serviceFor my shattered, scattered dead.I am never wholly sad;I am never wholly glad;For my sadness is half madnessAnd my gladness is half sadnessFor the remnants of the wrecksThat lie below me castA gloom upon the wave,And my sunny days are pastSleeping in the shadowThat is shaken from a grave.'Twas not I who betrayed them;'Twas not I who waylaid them;But they died with curses for meOn their water-wasted lips.I did my best to save themThe warning that I gave themIs the warning that has succoredTen thousand watchful ships.Ah, had they used the lead!Ah, had they tacked insteadOf standing blindly onwardWithout a watch for me!They would have heard me tolling;They would have seen me rolling;And have had a chance to weatherAnd gain the open sea.For I mark a dreaded dangerTo the coaster and the stranger,For my friend below is silentAnd shows no foamy chain.Not like the sunken ledge;Not like the reefs that wedgeThe surges from the undergripAnd hurl them out again.For the reef it warns the shipBy the frothing and the snowingOf 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 sandIt is dead to ear and eye;And its very bounds defyThe laws that keep in orderThe stout and stable land.It changes every storm;And I never know its form—I who gird and guard itWith my constant clanging bell—It scarcely gives me holdFor my anchor in its mold;And we shift and change togetherWith each mighty, moving swell.But I rob it of its prey,For the ships have time to stay,When the wind takes up my musicAnd bears it out to sea;But when the Easters roarAnd drive upon the shoreMy loudest cry of warningIs tossed and lost a-lee.Then, then I cry in anger,And the clanging and the clangorShake and shock the barsOf my tossing, toiling cage;And I curse the wind and sea,And the chain that's under meStrains its links and surgesWith 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 acresOn their oaken frames and sides—It seems to mound its spread,It seems to lift its head,As though to make more deadlyThe tangle of its tides.In the snow, in the fog,When the sharpest eyes are blind;When the oceanHas scarce motion,And the windHas forsaken;When my power of speech is taken,And I sit in silent pain;When I toil and toil in vainTo force the larum noteFrom the muscles of my throat,And it only breathes a tollThat dies upon the shoal;And I strive and I writheWith the pain of action palsiedBy a force beyond control.When I cannot see or hear them;When I cannot warn or cheer them;And only know that they are thereBy the throbbing of my soul.For I know that they will blame me;For I know that they will name meWith the bitterest of cursesFor the silence of my note,And I stoop and pray the seaTo lend its aid to me;But it mocks me with a rippleThat scarcely wets my float.And then I hear them calling,As slowly, slowly crawlingThey come working in from seawardWith their whistles cryingwhere?And I try to answer backThat I'm lying in the track;But the loudest cry I make themIs a thread upon the air.Swing—swing—Ring—ring—Roll—roll—Toll—toll—Just a thingWithout a soul,Doing its duty on the shoal;Just a bellThat sea and swellIn 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.