The Home Book of Verse Volume Iii Part 62

IN OUR BOAT

Stars trembling o'er us and sunset before us, Mountains in shadow and forests asleep; Down the dim river we float on forever, Speak not, ah, breathe not--there's peace on the deep.

Come not, pale sorrow, flee till to-morrow; Rest softly falling o'er eyelids that weep; While down the river we float on forever, Speak not, ah, breathe not--there's peace on the deep.

As the waves cover the depths we glide over, So let the past in forgetfulness sleep, While down the river we float on forever, Speak not, ah, breathe not--there's peace on the deep.

Heaven s.h.i.+ne above us, bless all that love us; All whom we love in thy tenderness keep!

While down the river we float on forever, Speak not, ah, breathe not--there's peace on the deep.

Dinah Maria Mulock Craik [1826-1887]

POOR JACK

Go, patter to lubbers and swabs, do ye see, 'Bout danger, and fear, and the like; A water-tight boat and good sea-room for me, And it ain't to a little I'll strike.

Though the tempest topgallant-masts smack smooth should smite, And s.h.i.+ver each splinter of wood,-- Clear the deck, stow the yards, and house everything tight, And under reefed foresail we'll scud: Avast! nor don't think me a milksop so soft To be taken for trifles aback; For they say there's a Providence sits up aloft, To keep watch for the life of poor Jack!

I heard our good chaplain palaver one day About souls, heaven, mercy, and such; And, my timbers! what lingo he'd coil and belay; Why, 'twas just all as one as High Dutch; For he said how a sparrow can't founder, d'ye see, Without orders that come down below; And a many fine things that proved clearly to me That Providence takes us in tow: "For," says he, "do you mind me, let storms e'er so oft Take the topsails of sailors aback, There's a sweet little cherub that sits up aloft, To keep watch for the life of poor Jack!"

I said to our Poll,--for, d'ye see, she would cry, When last we weighed anchor for sea,-- "What argufies sniveling and piping your eye?

Why, what a blamed fool you must be!

Can't you see, the world's wide, and there's room for us all, Both for seamen and lubbers ash.o.r.e?

And if to old Davy I should go, friend Poll, You never will hear of me more.

What then? All's a hazard: come, don't be so soft: Perhaps I may laughing come back; For, d'ye see, there's a cherub sits smiling aloft, To keep watch for the life of poor Jack!"

D'ye mind me, a sailor should be every inch All as one as a piece of the s.h.i.+p, And with her brave the world, without offering to flinch From the moment the anchor's a-trip.

As for me, in all weathers, all times, sides, and ends, Naught's a trouble from duty that springs, For my heart is my Poll's, and my rhino's my friend's, And as for my will, 'tis the king's.

Even when my time comes, ne'er believe me so soft As for grief to be taken aback; For the same little cherub that sits up aloft Will look out a good berth for poor Jack!

Charles Dibdin [1745-1814]

"ROCKED IN THE CRADLE OF THE DEEP"

Rocked in the cradle of the deep I lay me down in peace to sleep; Secure I rest upon the wave, For Thou, O Lord! hast power to save.

I know Thou wilt not slight my call, For Thou dost mark the sparrow's fall; And calm and peaceful shall I sleep, Rocked in the cradle of the deep.

When in the dead of night I lie And gaze upon the trackless sky, The star-bespangled heavenly scroll, The boundless waters as they roll,-- I feel Thy wondrous power to save From perils of the stormy wave: Rocked in the cradle of the deep, I calmly rest and soundly sleep.

And such the trust that still were mine, Though stormy winds swept o'er the brine, Or though the tempest's fiery breath Roused me from sleep to wreck and death.

In ocean cave, still safe with Thee The germ of immortality!

And calm and peaceful shall I sleep, Rocked in the cradle of the deep.

Emma Hart Willard [1787-1870]

OUTWARD

Wither away, O Sailor! say?

Under the night, under the day, Yearning sail and flying spray Out of the black into the blue, Where are the great Winds bearing you?

Never port shall lift for me Into the sky, out of the sea!

Into the blue or into the black, Onward, outward, never back!

Something mighty and weird and dim Calls me under the ocean rim!

Sailor under sun and moon, 'Tis the ocean's fatal rune.

Under yon far rim of sky Twice ten thousand others lie.

Love is sweet and home is fair, And your mother calls you there.

Onward, outward I must go Where the mighty currents flow.

Home is anywhere for me On this purple-tented sea.

Star and Wind and Sun my brothers, Ocean one of many mothers.

Onward under sun and star Where the weird adventures are!

Never port shall lift for me-- I am Wind and Sky and Sea!

John G. Neihardt [1881-

A Pa.s.sER-BY

Whither, O splendid s.h.i.+p, thy white sails crowding, Leaning across the bosom of the urgent West, That fearest nor sea rising, nor sky clouding, Whither away, fair rover, and what thy quest?

Ah! soon, when Winter has all our vales oppressed, When skies are cold and misty, and hail is hurling, Wilt thou glide on the blue Pacific, or rest In a summer haven asleep, thy white sails furling.

I there before thee, in the country that well thou knowest, Already arrived, am inhaling the odorous air: I watch thee enter unerringly where thou goest, And anchor queen of the strange s.h.i.+pping there, Thy sails for awnings spread, thy masts bare: Nor is aught from the foaming reef to the snow-capped grandest Peak, that is over the feathery palms, more fair Than thou, so upright, so stately and still thou standest.

And yet, O splendid s.h.i.+p, unhailed and nameless, I know not if, aiming a fancy, I rightly divine That thou hast a purpose joyful, a courage blameless, Thy port a.s.sured in a happier land than mine.

But for all I have given thee, beauty enough is thine, As thou, aslant with trim tackle and shrouding, From the proud nostril curve of a prow's line In the offing scatterest foam, thy white sails crowding.

Robert Bridges [1844-1930]

OFF RIVIERE DU LOUP

O s.h.i.+p incoming from the sea With all your cloudy tower of sail, Das.h.i.+ng the water to the lee, And leaning grandly to the gale,

The sunset pageant in the west Has filled your canvas curves with rose, And jeweled every toppling crest That crashes into silver snows!

You know the joy of coming home, After long leagues to France or Spain You feel the clear Canadian foam And the gulf water heave again.