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 ship'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 ship, 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!

And, look, the underwriters' man, Timely, when the stevedore's done, Puts on his _specs_ to pry and scan, And sets her down--_A, No. 1._

Bravo, master! Bravo, brig!

For slanting snows out of the West Never the _Snow-Bird_ cares one fig; And foul winds steady her, though a pest.

OLD COUNSEL _Of The Young Master of a Wrecked California Clipper_

Come out of the Golden Gate, Go round the Horn with streamers, Carry royals early and late; But, brother, be not over-elate-- _All hands save ship!_ has startled dreamers.

THE TUFT OF KELP

All dripping in tangles green, Cast up by a lonely sea If purer for that, O Weed, Bitterer, too, are ye?

THE MALDIVE SHARK

About the Shark, phlegmatical one, Pale sot of the Maldive sea, The sleek little pilot-fish, azure and slim, How alert in attendance be.

From his saw-pit of mouth, from his charnel of maw They have nothing of harm to dread, But liquidly glide on his ghastly flank Or before his Gorgonian head: Or lurk in the port of serrated teeth In white triple tiers of glittering gates, And there find a haven when peril's abroad, An asylum in jaws of the Fates!

They are friends; and friendly they guide him to prey, Yet never partake of the treat-- Eyes and brains to the dotard lethargic and dull, Pale ravener of horrible meat.

TO NED

Where is the world we roved, Ned Bunn?

Hollows thereof lay rich in shade By voyagers old inviolate thrown Ere Paul Pry cruised with Pelf and Trade.

To us old lads some thoughts come home Who roamed a world young lads no more shall roam.

Nor less the satiate year impends When, wearying of routine-resorts, The pleasure-hunter shall break loose, Ned, for our Pantheistic ports:-- Marquesas and glenned isles that be Authentic Edens in a Pagan sea.

The charm of scenes untried shall lure, And, Ned, a legend urge the flight-- The Typee-truants under stars Unknown to Shakespere's _Midsummer- Night;_ And man, if lost to Saturn's Age, Yet feeling life no Syrian pilgrimage.

But, tell, shall he, the tourist, find Our isles the same in violet-glow Enamoring us what years and years-- Ah, Ned, what years and years ago!

Well, Adam advances, smart in pace, But scarce by violets that advance you trace.

But we, in anchor-watches calm, The Indian Psyche's languor won, And, musing, breathed primeval balm From Edens ere yet overrun; Marvelling mild if mortal twice, Here and hereafter, touch a Paradise.