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THE SEA
The sea! the sea! the open sea!
The blue, the fresh, the ever free!
Without a mark, without a bound, It runneth the earth's wide regions round; It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies; Or like a cradled creature lies.
I'm on the sea! I'm on the sea!
I am where I would ever be; With the blue above, and the blue below, And silence wheresoe'er I go; If a storm should come and awake the deep, What matter? I shall ride and sleep.
I love, O, how I love to ride On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide, When every mad wave drowns the moon Or whistles aloft his tempest tune, And tells how goeth the world below, And why the sou'west blasts do blow.
I never was on the dull, tame sh.o.r.e, But I loved the great sea more and more.
And backwards flew to her billowy breast, Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest; And a mother she was, and is, to me; For I was born on the open sea!
The waves were white, and red the morn, In the noisy hour when I was born; And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled, And the dolphins bared their backs of gold; And never was heard such an outcry wild As welcomed to life the ocean-child!
I've lived since then, in calm and strife, Full fifty summers, a sailor's life, With wealth to spend and a power to range, But never have sought nor sighed for change; And Death, whenever he comes to me, Shall come on the wild, unbounded sea!
Bryan Waller Procter [1787-1874]
SAILOR'S SONG From "Death's Jest-Book"
To sea, to sea! The calm is o'er; The wanton water leaps in sport, And rattles down the pebbly sh.o.r.e; The dolphin wheels, the sea-cows snort, And unseen mermaids' pearly song Comes bubbling up, the weeds among.
Fling broad the sail, dip deep the oar; To sea, to sea! the calm is o'er.
To sea, to sea! our wide-winged bark Shall billowy cleave its sunny way, And with its shadow, fleet and dark, Break the caved Tritons' azure day, Like mighty eagle soaring light O'er antelopes on Alpine height.
The anchor heaves, the s.h.i.+p swings free, The sails swell full. To sea, to sea!
Thomas Lovell Beddoes [1803-1849]
"A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE"
A life on the ocean wave, A home on the rolling deep, Where the scattered waters rave, And the winds their revels keep!
Like an eagle caged, I pine On this dull, unchanging sh.o.r.e: Oh! give me the flas.h.i.+ng brine, The spray and the tempest's roar!
Once more on the deck I stand Of my own swift-gliding craft: Set sail! farewell to the land!
The gale follows fair abaft.
We shoot through the sparkling foam Like an ocean-bird set free;-- Like the ocean-bird, our home We'll find far out on the sea.
The land is no longer in view, The clouds have begun to frown; But with a stout vessel and crew, We'll say, Let the storm come down!
And the song of our hearts shall be, While the winds and the waters rave, A home on the rolling sea!
A life on the ocean wave!
Epes Sargent [1813-1880]
TACKING s.h.i.+P OFF Sh.o.r.e
The weather-leech of the topsail s.h.i.+vers, The bowlines strain, and the lee-shrouds slacken, The braces are taut, the lithe boom quivers, And the waves with the coming squall-cloud blacken.
Open one point on the weather-bow, Is the lighthouse tall on Fire Island Head.
There's a shade of doubt on the captain's brow, And the pilot watches the heaving lead.
I stand at the wheel, and with eager eye To sea and to sky and to sh.o.r.e I gaze, Till the muttered order of "Full and by!"
Is suddenly changed for "Full for stays!"
The s.h.i.+p bends lower before the breeze, As her broadside fair to the blast she lays; And she swifter springs to the rising seas, As the pilot calls, "Stand by for stays!"
It is silence all, as each in his place, With the gathered coil in his hardened hands, By tack and bowline, by sheet and brace, Waiting the watchword impatient stands.
And the light on Fire Island Head draws near, As, trumpet-winged, the pilot's shout From his post on the bowsprit's heel I hear, With the welcome call of "Ready! About!"
No time to spare! It is touch and go; And the captain growls, "Down helm! hard down!"
As my weight on the whirling spokes I throw, While heaven grows black with the storm-cloud's frown.
High o'er the knight-heads flies the spray, As we meet the shock of the plunging sea; And my shoulder stiff to the wheel I lay, As I answer, "Ay, ay, sir! Ha-a-rd a-lee!"
With the swerving leap of a startled steed The s.h.i.+p flies fast in the eye of the wind, The dangerous shoals on the lee recede, And the headland white we have left behind.
The topsails flutter, the jibs collapse, And belly and tug at the groaning cleats; The spanker slats, and the mainsail flaps; And thunders the order, "Tacks and sheets!"
Mid the rattle of blocks and the tramp of the crew, Hisses the rain of the rus.h.i.+ng squall: The sails are aback from clew to clew, And now is the moment for "Mainsail, haul!"
And the heavy yards, like a baby's toy, By fifty strong arms are swiftly swung: She holds her way, and I look with joy For the first white spray o'er the bulwarks flung.
"Let go, and haul!" 'Tis the last command, And the head-sails fill to the blast once more: Astern and to leeward lies the land, With its breakers white on the s.h.i.+ngly sh.o.r.e.
What matters the reef, or the rain, or the squall?
I steady the helm for the open sea; The first mate clamors, "Belay, there, all!"
And the captain's breath once more comes free.
And so off sh.o.r.e let the good s.h.i.+p fly; Little care I how the gusts may blow, In my fo'castle bunk, in a jacket dry.
Eight bells have struck, and my watch is below.
Walter Mitch.e.l.l [1826-1908]
