Part 4 (1/2)

O, the sailors--O, the sails!

O, the lost crews never heard of!

Well the harp of Ariel wails Thought that tongue can tell no word of!

TO THE MASTER OF THE _METEOR_

Lonesome on earth's loneliest deep, Sailor! who dost thy vigil keep-- Off the Cape of Storms dost musing sweep Over monstrous waves that curl and comb; Of thee we think when here from brink We blow the mead in bubbling foam.

Of thee we think, in a ring we link; To the shearer of ocean's fleece we drink, And the _Meteor_ rolling home.

FAR OFF-Sh.o.r.e

Look, the raft, a signal flying, Thin--a shred; None upon the lashed spars lying, Quick or dead.

Cries the sea-fowl, hovering over, ”Crew, the crew?”

And the billow, reckless, rover, Sweeps anew!

THE MAN-OF-WAR HAWK

Yon black man-of-war-hawk that wheels in the light O'er the black s.h.i.+p's white sky-s'l, sunned cloud to the sight, Have we low-flyers wings to ascend to his height?

No arrow can reach him; nor thought can attain To the placid supreme in the sweep of his reign.

THE FIGURE-HEAD

The _Charles-and-Emma_ seaward sped, (Named from the carven pair at prow,) He so smart, and a curly head, She tricked forth as a bride knows how: Pretty stem for the port, I trow!

But iron-rust and alum-spray And chafing gear, and sun and dew Vexed this lad and la.s.sie gay, Tears in their eyes, salt tears nor few; And the hug relaxed with the failing glue.

But came in end a dismal night, With creaking beams and ribs that groan, A black lee-sh.o.r.e and waters white: Dropped on the reef, the pair lie p.r.o.ne: O, the breakers dance, but the winds they moan!

THE GOOD CRAFT _SNOW BIRD_

Strenuous need that head-wind be From purposed voyage that drives at last The s.h.i.+p, sharp-braced and dogged still, Beating up against the blast.

Brigs that figs for market gather, Homeward-bound upon the stretch, Encounter oft this uglier weather Yet in end their port they fetch.

Mark yon craft from sunny Smyrna Glazed with ice in Boston Bay; Out they toss the fig-drums cheerly, Livelier for the frosty ray.

What if sleet off-sh.o.r.e a.s.sailed her, What though ice yet plate her yards; In wintry port not less she renders Summer's gift with warm regards!