THE BELL BUOY
Theychristened my brother of old—And a saintly name he bears—They gave him his place to holdAt the head of the belfry-stairs,Where the minster-towers standAnd the breeding kestrels cry.Would I change with my brother a league inland?(Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I!In the flush of the hot June prime,O’er smooth flood-tides afire,I hear him hurry the chimeTo the bidding of checked Desire;Till the sweated ringers tireAnd the wild bob-majors die.Could I wait for my turn in the godly choir?(Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I!When the smoking scud is blown,When the greasy wind-rack lowers,Apart and at peace and alone,He counts the changeless hours.He wars with darkling Powers(I war with a darkling sea);Would he stoop to my work in the gusty mirk?(Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not he!There was never a priest to pray,There was never a hand to toll,When they made me guard of the bay,And moored me over the shoal.I rock, I reel, and I roll—My four great hammers ply—Could I speak or be still at the Church’s will?(Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I!The landward marks have failed,The fog-bank glides unguessed,The seaward lights are veiled,The spent deep feigns her rest:But my ear is laid to her breast,I lift to the swell—I cry!Could I wait in sloth on the Church’s oath?(Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I!At the careless end of nightI thrill to the nearing screw;I turn in the nearing lightAnd I call to the drowsy crew;And the mud boils foul and blueAs the blind bow backs away.Will they give me their thanks if they clear the banks?(Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not they!The beach-pools cake and skim,The bursting spray-heads freeze,I gather on crown and rimThe grey, grained ice of the seas,Where, sheathed from bitt to trees,The plunging colliers lie.Would I barter my place for the Church’s grace?(Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I!Through the blur of the whirling snow,Or the black of the inky sleet,The lanterns gather and grow,And I look for the homeward fleet.Rattle of block and sheet—‘Ready about—stand by!’Shall I ask them a fee ere they fetch the quay?(Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I!I dip and I surge and I swingIn the rip of the racing tide,By the gates of doom I sing,On the horns of death I ride.A ship-length overside,Between the course and the sand,Fretted and bound I bidePeril whereof I cry.Would I change with my brother a league inland?(Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I!
Theychristened my brother of old—And a saintly name he bears—They gave him his place to holdAt the head of the belfry-stairs,Where the minster-towers standAnd the breeding kestrels cry.Would I change with my brother a league inland?(Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I!In the flush of the hot June prime,O’er smooth flood-tides afire,I hear him hurry the chimeTo the bidding of checked Desire;Till the sweated ringers tireAnd the wild bob-majors die.Could I wait for my turn in the godly choir?(Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I!When the smoking scud is blown,When the greasy wind-rack lowers,Apart and at peace and alone,He counts the changeless hours.He wars with darkling Powers(I war with a darkling sea);Would he stoop to my work in the gusty mirk?(Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not he!There was never a priest to pray,There was never a hand to toll,When they made me guard of the bay,And moored me over the shoal.I rock, I reel, and I roll—My four great hammers ply—Could I speak or be still at the Church’s will?(Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I!The landward marks have failed,The fog-bank glides unguessed,The seaward lights are veiled,The spent deep feigns her rest:But my ear is laid to her breast,I lift to the swell—I cry!Could I wait in sloth on the Church’s oath?(Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I!At the careless end of nightI thrill to the nearing screw;I turn in the nearing lightAnd I call to the drowsy crew;And the mud boils foul and blueAs the blind bow backs away.Will they give me their thanks if they clear the banks?(Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not they!The beach-pools cake and skim,The bursting spray-heads freeze,I gather on crown and rimThe grey, grained ice of the seas,Where, sheathed from bitt to trees,The plunging colliers lie.Would I barter my place for the Church’s grace?(Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I!Through the blur of the whirling snow,Or the black of the inky sleet,The lanterns gather and grow,And I look for the homeward fleet.Rattle of block and sheet—‘Ready about—stand by!’Shall I ask them a fee ere they fetch the quay?(Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I!I dip and I surge and I swingIn the rip of the racing tide,By the gates of doom I sing,On the horns of death I ride.A ship-length overside,Between the course and the sand,Fretted and bound I bidePeril whereof I cry.Would I change with my brother a league inland?(Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I!
Theychristened my brother of old—And a saintly name he bears—They gave him his place to holdAt the head of the belfry-stairs,Where the minster-towers standAnd the breeding kestrels cry.Would I change with my brother a league inland?(Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I!
In the flush of the hot June prime,O’er smooth flood-tides afire,I hear him hurry the chimeTo the bidding of checked Desire;Till the sweated ringers tireAnd the wild bob-majors die.Could I wait for my turn in the godly choir?(Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I!
When the smoking scud is blown,When the greasy wind-rack lowers,Apart and at peace and alone,He counts the changeless hours.He wars with darkling Powers(I war with a darkling sea);Would he stoop to my work in the gusty mirk?(Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not he!
There was never a priest to pray,There was never a hand to toll,When they made me guard of the bay,And moored me over the shoal.I rock, I reel, and I roll—My four great hammers ply—Could I speak or be still at the Church’s will?(Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I!
The landward marks have failed,The fog-bank glides unguessed,The seaward lights are veiled,The spent deep feigns her rest:But my ear is laid to her breast,I lift to the swell—I cry!Could I wait in sloth on the Church’s oath?(Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I!
At the careless end of nightI thrill to the nearing screw;I turn in the nearing lightAnd I call to the drowsy crew;And the mud boils foul and blueAs the blind bow backs away.Will they give me their thanks if they clear the banks?(Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not they!
The beach-pools cake and skim,The bursting spray-heads freeze,I gather on crown and rimThe grey, grained ice of the seas,Where, sheathed from bitt to trees,The plunging colliers lie.Would I barter my place for the Church’s grace?(Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I!
Through the blur of the whirling snow,Or the black of the inky sleet,The lanterns gather and grow,And I look for the homeward fleet.Rattle of block and sheet—‘Ready about—stand by!’Shall I ask them a fee ere they fetch the quay?(Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I!
I dip and I surge and I swingIn the rip of the racing tide,By the gates of doom I sing,On the horns of death I ride.A ship-length overside,Between the course and the sand,Fretted and bound I bidePeril whereof I cry.Would I change with my brother a league inland?(Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I!