Part 3

_Men who bless them And 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 repeated In 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 reverses In 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 van Of those who stand and strive for man; And if they make the question, then Come 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 toll With every move and motion Of 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 bask In the shadow of my cask Are half afraid of me.

The land wind speaks me fair, For it has no thought or care With the deeds that are done In the midnight and the gale; And it bears me on its wing A welcome offering Of the shouting of the upland And the chatter of the shale.

But most I love the weather When the wind and sea together Lie locked in summer slumber And the sky sleeps overhead, For then I ease the strain On my anchor and my chain, And ring a muffled service For my shattered, scattered dead.

I am never wholly sad; I am never wholly glad; For my sadness is half madness And my gladness is half sadness For the remnants of the wrecks That lie below me cast A gloom upon the wave, And my sunny days are past Sleeping in the shadow That is shaken from a grave.

'Twas not I who betrayed them; 'Twas not I who waylaid them; But they died with curses for me On their water-wasted lips. I did my best to save them The warning that I gave them Is the warning that has succored Ten thousand watchful ships.

Ah, had they used the lead! Ah, had they tacked instead Of standing blindly onward Without a watch for me! They would have heard me tolling; They would have seen me rolling; And have had a chance to weather And gain the open sea.

For I mark a dreaded danger To the coaster and the stranger, For my friend below is silent And shows no foamy chain. Not like the sunken ledge; Not like the reefs that wedge The surges from the undergrip And hurl them out again.

For the reef it warns the ship By the frothing and the snowing Of 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 sand It is dead to ear and eye; And its very bounds defy The laws that keep in order The stout and stable land.

It changes every storm; And I never know its form-- I who gird and guard it With my constant clanging bell-- It scarcely gives me hold For my anchor in its mold; And we shift and change together With each mighty, moving swell.

But I rob it of its prey, For the ships have time to stay, When the wind takes up my music And bears it out to sea; But when the Easters roar And drive upon the shore My loudest cry of warning Is tossed and lost a-lee.

Then, then I cry in anger, And the clanging and the clangor Shake and shock the bars Of my tossing, toiling cage; And I curse the wind and sea, And the chain that's under me Strains its links and surges With 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 acres On their oaken frames and sides-- It seems to mound its spread, It seems to lift its head, As though to make more deadly The tangle of its tides.

In the snow, in the fog, When the sharpest eyes are blind; When the ocean Has scarce motion, And the wind Has forsaken; When my power of speech is taken, And I sit in silent pain; When I toil and toil in vain To force the larum note From the muscles of my throat, And it only breathes a toll That dies upon the shoal; And I strive and I writhe With the pain of action palsied By a force beyond control. When I cannot see or hear them; When I cannot warn or cheer them; And only know that they are there By the throbbing of my soul.

For I know that they will blame me; For I know that they will name me With the bitterest of curses For the silence of my note, And I stoop and pray the sea To lend its aid to me; But it mocks me with a ripple That scarcely wets my float.

And then I hear them calling, As slowly, slowly crawling They come working in from seaward With their whistles crying _where_? And I try to answer back That I'm lying in the track; But the loudest cry I make them Is a thread upon the air.

_Swing--swing-- Ring--ring-- Roll--roll-- Toll--toll-- Just a thing Without a soul, Doing its duty on the shoal; Just a bell That sea and swell In 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._

PHANTOMS.

Like a tide that runs increasing, Bearing ships to port again, There's a tide that brings unceasing Pleasures to my restless brain.

When at night I sit and swinging Idly to a strain of thought, Then it flows, resistless, bringing Countless tales with pleasure fraught.

And it seems as though the olden Stories of the mystic sea Came like ships to bear their golden, Precious cargoes unto me.

For I hail with deep emotion All those gray and ghostly forms, Phantoms of the shoreless ocean That is swept by constant storms.

And I see from mist-enshrouded, Ancient, half-forgotten tales Galleons rise, and memory clouded, Pass with faint and formless sails.

Others come, the tall and splendid Monarchs of the oaken side, Who, with master arms, contended For the empire of the tide.

One by one they pass in glory-- Stately shapes that led the van-- Builders of the ocean's story, Noblest gift of man to man.

And not less the worn and shattered, Drifting, find my port at last. All the stranded, stove, and battered Victims of the wave and blast,

They are mine by right of capture: Buccaneer and ship of plate; And I search their holds with rapture Till the night grows cold and late;

Till the moon, high-prowed and dipping, Like a ship of ancient worth, Leaves her cloudy port and slipping, Spins her wake across the earth.

And the wind, to peace consenting, Breathes a hymn above the land; And the ocean, half repenting, Kneels in prayer along the sand.

FLOTSAM.

For the tide runs in and the tide runs out, And the women they talk and wait, For hope has a soul that is built of doubt, And our ships are ofttimes late.

And the tide runs up and the tide runs down, And the drift goes floating past; A message it bears to the waiting town In form of a broken mast.

Look! no seaweed yellows its shattered ends! No shell-fish whiten its girth! 'Tis a message, they cry, old Ocean sends To those they have left on earth!

And the tide runs up and the tide runs down, And the sea reclaims its toll; But the hopes that live in that stricken town Are those hopes that have no soul.

THE LOST SHIP.

Who saw the ship going down to the sea With her topsails sheeted home, and her spanker Swelling like a course, foam along the lee, And the crew on the tackle of the anchor?

Who saw her running off from the land, Wind blowing strong, steering true for the light-ship, But went away wishing he might command Some future day such a tall, such a tight ship?

Came she never back again to that port? Long did they wait, watching out at eve and morn. Last was she seen hove-to with canvas short By an eastward bounder scudding past the Horn.

Who saw her sink that midnight in the storm? Where does she lie, rig-tangled and hull-broken? Sails she, perhaps, a ghostly, gliding form, That silent sea where ships are never spoken?

THE MAIN-SHEET SONG.

Rushing along on a narrow reach, Our rival under the lee, The wind falls foul of the weather leach, And the jib flaps fretfully. The skipper casts a glance along, And handles his wheel to meet-- Then sings in the voice of a stormy song, "All hands get on that sheet!"

Yo ha! Yo ho! Then give her a spill, With a rattle of blocks abaft. Yo ha! Yo ho! Come down with a will And bring the main-sheet aft.

Rolling the foam up over the rail She smokes along and flings A spurt of spray in the curving sail, And plunges and rolls and springs; For a wild, wet spot is the scuppers' sweep, As we stand to our knees along-- It's a foot to make and a foot to keep As we surge to the bullie's song.

Yo ha! Yo ho! Then give her a spill With a rattle of blocks abaft. Yo ha! Yo ho! Come down with a will And bring the main-sheet aft.

Muscle and mind are a winning pair With a lively plank below, That whether the wind be foul or fair Will pick up her heels and go; For old hemp and hands are shipmates long-- There's work whenever they meet-- So here's to a pull that's steady and strong, When all hands get on the sheet.

Yo ha! Yo ho! Then give her a spill With a rattle of blocks abaft. Yo ha! Yo ho! Come down with a will And bring the main-sheet aft.

THE LANDFALL

The scent of the soil is strong on the breeze, The gulls are many and shrill, And over the crest of the cresting seas Is floating a rosy hill; And right at the base of this filmy shape, Just clear of the weather shroud, Say, is it ship, or is it a cape, Or a hard spot in the cloud? But hark! from aloft where the seaman swings, And points with an eager hand, Then fore and aft the glad cry rings-- Land, ho, land!

THE CLIPPER.

Her sails are strong and yellow as the sand, Her spars are tall and supple as the pine, And, like the bounty of a generous mine, Sun-touched, her brasses flash on every hand. Her sheer takes beauty from a golden band, Which, sweeping aft, is taught to twist and twine Into a scroll, and badge of quaint design Hang on her quarters. Insolent and grand She drives. Her stem rings loudly as it throws The hissing sapphire into foamy waves, While on her weather bends the copper glows In burnished splendor. Rolling down she laves Her high black sides until the scupper flows, Then pushing out her shapely bow she braves The next tall sea, and, leaping, onward goes.

THE CONSTITUTION.

Where Glory dwells a hundred years, That spot becomes a shrine, The very soil she trod appears To bear the touch divine; The rusted gun, the shattered blade, Are kept with sacred hand, And Honor bows before the shade That fought to save the land.

Then why neglect--why give to rot This victor of the flood? Is she less holy than the spot That drank a hero's blood? Has she no plume to wing a thought-- No spark to fire a mind? In names like her's such deeds are wrought As glorify mankind.

And they, whose mighty banner fell Before her lightning's blast, Their victor rides the harbor swell Unshorn of yard and mast; And Glory gilds her like a sun, When, steaming thro' the wave, With dipping flag and rapid gun, The brave salute the brave.

Then give ours back, the sail, the spar-- Go let her broadside roar! A gun for every glit'ring star Her conquering ensign bore. To show ye have not held in vain The heritage she kept, Oh, let her image grace again The sea she proudly swept!

THE TARTAR.

The wind from East to South has shifted, The sea's gone down and the clouds are rifted, And broad on the larboard bow are seen A full-rigged ship and a brigantine, With a topsail schooner in between-- All bound to London Town.

The ship with a golden freight is freighted, The old brigantine with coal is weighted, The schooner's a slippery privateer, With roguish rig and a saucy sheer-- Her cargo is guns and hearts of cheer-- All bound to London Town.

A Frenchman out of old Brest is cruising, "A chance," says he, "there's no refusing. I will drive that privateer away; The ship and the brig will be my prey, For we don't meet prizes every day-- All bound to London Town."

Then, crowding sail, on the wind he hurried; The ship and the brig they worried and scurried. The privateer, with her canvas short, Just showed a muzzle at every port, For she'd a crew of the fighting sort-- When bound to London Town.

The Frenchman tacked the weather gauge after; The privateer cut the sea abaft her; Before she had time to ease a turn They drove a broadside into her stern, For fighting's a trade one's apt to learn-- When bound to London Town.

Then side by side with their guns they pounded, Till catching a puff the schooner rounded, And ere they had way to do the like, She laid them aboard with blade and pike, So what could the Brestman do but strike-- And go to London Town?

The wind from East to the South has shifted, The sea's gone down and the clouds are rifted, And broad on the larboard bow are seen A privateer and a brigantine, With a captured Frenchman in between-- All bound to London Town.

WARNING.

When the old moon hangs to the cloud's gray tail And the stars play in and out; When the East grows red and the West looks pale And the wind goes knocking about;

When over the edge of the shapeless coast, Where the horizon bites the cloud, The rack of the rain stalks in like a ghost And a sail blows through its shroud--

When the morn is such, of the noon beware! For this calm's a stormy feint: A reef in the sail is better than prayer, For a snug ship needs no saint.

IN SEPTEMBER.

Oh, the wind, the wind, And the white wake behind; And the land Of yellow sand, Looming like a band Of gold along the rim; And the laughter of the sea, And the sense of mystery, In the dim Stretch of lee, Where the haze In the blaze Of heat seems to meet The sky. Oh, the happy sails that fly To the east, to the south, And the light-house at the mouth Of the bay With its gray Granite spire Bold against the higher Lift o' green, And a smoky tug-boat's trail Flaunting like a tail Of stormy cloud, And a steamer in between With her paddles whirring round. Oh, a day upon the Sound, With the wind, the wind, Coming out behind, And the feeling of content That is lent To the mind, When the sailing breeze is fair, And your only thought or care Is to keep The sails asleep, And run, Until the sun Drops in the West-- Then rest is best.

THE HOMEWARD BOUNDER'S SONG.

There's many a ship with taller mast, There's many of squarer yard, There's many a one that sails as fast And many that roll as hard; With decks as white, with paint as bright, With hull as staunch and sound; But never ship that steers so light As the ship that's homeward bound!

_Then give her a spoke, and keep her west, Hurrah, for the world is round! And here's to the ship that steers the best-- Hurrah for the homeward bound!_

There's many a port in distant land And many a splendid sight, Where turret slim and palace grand Rise skyward tall and white; Where castles rear, and far and near Shines many a golden dome; But never sight that's half so dear As the dear old port at home.

_Then give her a spoke, and keep her west, Hurrah for a breeze astern! And here's to the port we love the best-- The port where the twin-lights burn!_

There's many a maid of fashion rare In warm and palmy lands, With sea-deep eyes and night-black hair And brown and shapely hands; With lips as red as ever led The heart of a man to roam, But never one we'd take instead Of the girl that waits at home.

_Then give her a spoke and keep her west, Hurrah for a wake of foam! And here's to the girl we love the best-- The girl that we leave at home._

THE SPELL OF THE SEA.

By the sea I sit and dream Of things that have passed, and now Are fading as fades the gleam Of sail on the ocean's brow, And I hear that song again She sang to the world before Men had crossed her glit'ring plain To die on the further shore.

'Tis a song that, like the wind In a stormy counterpart, Rouses and rolls the restless mind, Till it breaks against the heart-- Till it hurls its foam amain On the reefs which gird that lee-- And the heart is swept again By that yearning for the sea.

Ah, the sea it sings that song Whenever the moon is full-- Whenever the wind is strong, And the tides are bountiful-- And it throws a spell o'er one That my heart cannot withstand, So clearly do I foresee That I shall not die on land.

DAYS OF OAK.

I.

When ship met ship in olden days, With battle banners flaunting, From stem to stern the cannon's blaze A fiery challenge vaunting-- Then man fought man, as brave men should, To keep those walls of native wood.

II.

When broadsides roaring swept the deck, And crews were madly cheering; When sail and spar were shot to wreck, And ships were swiftly nearing; Then men faced death, as brave men should, Behind their walls of native wood.

III.

When face to face and hand to hand-- When boarders' blades were flashing; When bloody pikes made desperate stand, And pistol balls were crashing-- Then man fought man, as brave men should, To keep those walls of native wood.

IV.

When valiant arms prevailed at last, The foe for quarter crying, The dying seaman eyed the mast, And cheered his colors flying-- For men met death, as brave men should, Behind their walls of native wood.

LONG, LONG AGO.

As slow our boat the water thro' Is stealing on the breeze, The curving sky a tender blue, A deeper blue the seas; We mark whereon the western edge A band of coast is seen, Where juts the cape and slopes the ledge, A port is shut between.

On either side a sudden rise Of black and broken rock Thrusts out an arm that well defies The frantic ocean's shock; And from its point the sunken reef Runs out a mile or more, Where many a ship has come to grief When breaking breakers roar.

Long, long ago, in sudden wrath A storm burst on this land; It caught a fleet within its path-- An admiral in command. For three black days they fought the gale, Then one by one they wore-- And reft of spar and stripped of sail Went smashing on that shore.

Where red and rough the land-slip beach Is touched by tiny waves-- Beyond the winter breaker's reach They dug their shallow graves; And with a prayer that half expressed The sorrow that they knew, They laid the admiral there to rest Surrounded by his crew.

But, ah, to-day is sweet--and lo, The ocean is at rest, Save for a breathing low and slow Of wind across its breast. Far out beyond the cloudy forms Are anchored on the edge-- It is no time to talk of storms, Of wrecks upon the ledge.

WIND HAPPY SHIPS.

Wind happy ships, that rise and make Across the gaping bay, To dance like bubbles in the wake Of westward flying day.

So quick they rise, so swift they flow, So bright their topsails gleam, They seem to come, and come and go Like joy-thoughts in a dream.

Wind happy ships, in constant flight Across the sloping main, That thro' the dark and thro' the light Sail on and on again.

A port ye have, I know not where-- 'Tis far beyond my world-- But pray some day may find you there With all your canvas furled.

THE QUEST.

My carrack rides the wave below, The castle glooms above-- "Now who will sail the sea with me, To find the man I love?"

Three pilots tall sit in the hall, And drink my father's ale-- "Now one of three must go with me, This ship of mine to sail."

Deep, deep they quaffed, and quaffing, Struck the board with tankard chine-- "Now in what port, to East or West, Dwells this true love of thine?"

"I seek no port to East or West, But down beyond the rim, By following far the falling star, My ship will come to him.

"He rules a land of surfless shores, Of deep enchanted bays; Where time is twice as long again, And half the nights are days;

"Where dreams are dreamt with open eyes; Where love forbears to change; And all that's new is old and sweet, And all that's old is strange."

Loud, loud they laughed, and laughing, Blew the foam from bearded lips As blows the gale the whiter foam From the bows of plunging ships.

Then up and spake the youngest one-- And laughter seamed his cheek-- "There is no port beyond the rim, Such as the port you seek.

"The sea is wide, and isles may hide Unknown to pilot's eye; But this, methink, lies on the brink, When glows the ev'ning sky:

"A vapory shore that fades before The swift-advancing stars; Where rides the moon on blue lagoon Embayed by golden bars."

He ceased; and the boisterous laughter Rose rumbling thro' the hall. It swept like a gale among the mail, And the banners shook like shivered sail, As it rolled from wall to wall.

Then up and spake the second one: "I fear not wind nor wave; But this soft clime of twice-long time Must lie beyond the grave.

"No seaman's skill, no pilot's art, May find that port, I ween, For God alone doth read the chart Of that dark sea between.

"And though I serve my Lord and King With head, and heart, and hand, I will not make, for woman's sake, A voyage to find that land!"

They laughed, but they laughed less lightly, As though they felt their breath, And cheered the jest to free the breast From ugly thoughts of death.

The maiden stepp'd three paces back, But nothing did she say-- She turned her eyes upon the west, She signed the cross upon her breast, Then bent her knee to pray.

Dear heart, but it was beautiful To hear that maiden's prayer! So strong of faith, so rich with love-- It seem'd as though the sun above Slipp'd down to drink its share.

And the saint on the window painted Looked down on her bended head, As a father who lingers watching Soft breathed above the dead--

Looked down from the glowing casement, From the sun-lit crimson glass-- Then followed a murmur of whispered prayer, And a silence descended unaware, Like the silence of the mass.

Then up she rose like one refreshed, Who bendeth o'er a stream And drinketh deep, and in her eyes There shone the light that mocks the wise And maketh doubt a dream.

Then up she rose as one refreshed And spake but once again: "If you trust your heart above your art Our search will not be vain."