The Home Book of Verse Volume Iii Part 64

The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy lurid row

Of smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe!

As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing monster slow Sinks on the anvil--all about, the faces fiery grow: "Hurrah!" they shout, "leap out, leap out!" bang, bang! the sledges go; Hurrah! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low; A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squas.h.i.+ng blow; The leathern mail rebounds the hail; the rattling cinders strow The ground around; at every bound the sweltering fountains flow; And, thick and loud, the swinking crowd at every stroke pant "ho!"

Leap out, leap out, my masters! leap out, and lay on load!

Let's forge a goodly anchor--a bower thick and broad; For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode; And I see the good s.h.i.+p riding, all in a perilous road,-- The low reef roaring on her lee; the roll of ocean poured From stem to stern, sea after sea; the mainmast by the board; The bulwarks down; the rudder gone; the boats stove at the chains; But courage still, brave mariners--the bower yet remains!

And not an inch to flinch he deigns--save when ye pitch sky high; Then moves his head, as though he said, "Fear nothing--here am I!"

Swing in your strokes in order; let foot and hand keep time; Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's chime.

But while ye swing your sledges, sing, and let the burthen be-- The anchor is the anvil king, and royal craftsmen we!

Strike in, strike in!--the sparks begin to dull their rustling red; Our hammers ring with sharper din--our work will soon be sped; Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich array For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay; Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry craftsmen here For the yeo-heave-o, and the heave-away, and the sighing seamen's cheer-- When, weighing slow, at eve they go, far, far from love and home; And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the ocean--foam.

In livid and obdurate gloom, he darkens down at last; A shapely one he is, and strong, as e'er from cat was cast.

O trusted and trustworthy guard! if thou hadst life like me, What pleasure would thy toils reward beneath the deep-green sea!

O deep sea-diver, who might then behold such sights as thou?-- The h.o.a.ry monster's palaces!--Methinks what joy 'twere now To go plumb-plunging down, amid the a.s.sembly of the whales, And feel the churned sea round me boil beneath their scourging tails!

Then deep in tangle-woods to fight the fierce sea-unicorn, And send him foiled and bellowing back, for all his ivory horn; To leave the subtle sworder-fish of bony blade forlorn; And for the ghastly-grinning shark, to laugh his jaws to scorn: To leap down on the kraken's back, where 'mid Norwegian isles He lies, a lubber anchorage for sudden shallowed miles-- Till, snorting like an under-sea volcano, off he rolls; Meanwhile to swing, a-buffeting the far astonished shoals Of his back-browsing ocean-calves; or, haply, in a cove Sh.e.l.l-strown, and consecrate of old to some Undine's love, To find the long-haired mermaidens; or, hard by icy lands, To wrestle with the sea-serpent, upon cerulean sands.

O broad-armed fisher of the deep! whose sports can equal thine?

The Dolphin weighs a thousand tons, that tugs thy cable--line; And night by night 'tis thy delight, thy glory day by day, Through sable sea and breaker white the giant game to play.

But, shamer of our little sports! forgive the name I gave: A fisher's joy is to destroy--thine office is to save.

O lodger in the sea-kings' halls! couldst thou but understand Whose be the white bones by thy side--or who that dripping band, Slow swaying in the heaving wave, that round about thee bend, With sounds like breakers in a dream blessing their ancient friend-- Oh, couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger steps round thee, Thine iron side would swell with pride---thou'dst leap within the sea!

Give honor to their memories who left the pleasant strand To shed their blood so freely for the love of fatherland-- Who left their chance of quiet age and gra.s.sy churchyard grave So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing wave!

Oh, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly sung, Honor him for their memory whose bones he goes among!

Samuel Ferguson [1810-1886]

DRIFTING

My soul to-day Is far away, Sailing the Vesuvian Bay; My winged boat, A bird afloat, Swings round the purple peaks remote:--

Round purple peaks It sails, and seeks Blue inlets and their crystal creeks, Where high rocks throw, Through deeps below, A duplicated golden glow.

Far, vague, and dim, The mountains swim; While on Vesuvius' misty brim, With outstretched hands, The gray smoke stands O'erlooking the volcanic lands.

Here Ischia smiles O'er liquid miles; And yonder, bluest of the isles, Calm Capri waits, Her sapphire gates Beguiling to her bright estates.

I heed not, if My rippling skiff Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff; With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Under the walls of Paradise.

Under the walls Where swells and falls The Bay's deep breast at intervals, At peace I lie, Blown softly by, A cloud upon this liquid sky.

The day, so mild, Is Heaven's own child, With Earth and Ocean reconciled; The airs I feel Around me steal Are murmuring to the murmuring keel.

Over the rail My hand I trail Within the shadow of the sail, A joy intense, The cooling sense Glides down my drowsy indolence.

With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Where Summer sings and never dies,-- O'erveiled with vines She glows and s.h.i.+nes Among her future oil and wines.

Her children, hid The cliffs amid, Are gamboling with the gamboling kid; Or down the walls, With tipsy calls, Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls.

The fisher's child, With tresses wild, Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled, With glowing lips Sings as she skips, Or gazes at the far-off s.h.i.+ps.

Yon deep bark goes Where traffic blows, From lands of sun to lands of snows;-- This happier one, Its course is run From lands of snow to lands of sun.

O happy s.h.i.+p, To rise and dip, With the blue crystal at your lip!

O happy crew, My heart with you Sails, and sails, and sings anew!

No more, no more The worldly sh.o.r.e Upbraids me with its loud uproar!

With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Under the walls of Paradise!

Thomas Buchanan Read [1822-1872]

"HOW'S MY BOY?"

"Ho, sailor of the sea!

How's my boy--my boy?"

"What's your boy's name, good wife, And in what good s.h.i.+p sailed he?"

"My boy John-- He that went to sea-- What care I for the s.h.i.+p, sailor?

My boy's my boy to me.

"You come back from sea And not know my John?

I might as well have asked some landsman Yonder down in the town.

There's not an a.s.s in all the parish But he knows my John.

"How's my boy--my boy?

And unless you let me know, I'll swear you are no sailor, Blue jacket or no, Bra.s.s b.u.t.ton or no, sailor, Anchor and crown or no!

Sure his s.h.i.+p was the Jolly Briton."-- "Speak low, woman, speak low!"

"And why should I speak low, sailor, About my own boy John?

If I was loud as I am proud I'd sing him o'er the town!

Why should I speak low, sailor?"

"That good s.h.i.+p went down."

"How's my boy--my boy?

What care I for the s.h.i.+p, sailor, I never was aboard her.

Be she afloat, or be she aground, Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound, Her owners can afford her!

I say, how's my John?"

"Every man on board went down, Every man aboard her."

"How's my boy--my boy?

What care I for the men, sailor?

I'm not their mother-- How's my boy--my boy?

Tell me of him and no other!