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Read Ebook: Songs of Sea and Sail by Day Thomas Fleming
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Ebook has 313 lines and 21552 words, and 7 pages
I see, close beneath me, the garn's'l bulge, And half of the tops'l swollen and round Swells out above, where the bunts divulge The fores'l's snowy mound.
With a fill and a flap the jibs respond, As she rolls a-weather, then rolls a-lee, And her bone as she leaps is thrown beyond The next o'ertaken sea.
And the hull beneath in its foamy ring Is narrowed in by the spread of sail, And the waves as they wash her seem to fling Their heads above the rail.
And I hear the roar of the passing blast, And the hiss and gush of the parted sea Is mixed with the groan of the straining mast, And the parrel's, che, che, che.
Of the weather deck where the old man strides, From the break of the poop to the after-rail, I can catch a glimpse, but all besides Is hid by swelling sail.
For the wake abaft is shut behind, Except when she yaws from her helm and throws; Then like a green lane it seems to wind Aheap with drifted snows.
But lo! as I gaze the weather clew Of the topsail lifts to the watch's weight, And the helmsman comes into perfect view, And at his side the mate.
As I swing my eyes ahead again For that one last look ere I drop below, They catch as she lifts a grayish stain Athwart the orange glow.
My heart leaps up at the welcome sight, And I grasp the pole with a firmer hand, And shading my eyes from the glancing light Make sure that it is land.
It seems to dance, but I catch it still As we lift to the sweep of a longer sea-- 'Tis the windy top of a far-off hill Whose shape is known to me.
Then I send a yell to the rolling deck, And start all hands from their work below; As I point with a rigid arm at the speck-- The cry comes back, "Land ho!"
And the mate looks up and gives a call, The old man stops in his clock-like walk, The watch lets up on the top-sail fall And takes a spell of talk.
The skipper goes aft to the binnacle, where He shapes his hand on the compass card, And takes with a glance the bearing there, Eying me on the yard.
And I stand with my right arm swinging out, With a finger true on the dancing speck, Until on my ears falls the ringing shout: "All right! Lay down on deck!"
AT PORTSMOUTH
The great ships in the harbour Sit silent on the tide, And in the sea beneath them Their gloomy shadows ride.
There is no life, no beauty, No grace the heart can feel, In those irenic monsters-- Those hideous forms of steel.
It is old England's squadron, Her constant watch and ward-- The bulwark of her freedom, The Channel's matchless guard.
How different from the frigates That bore the dauntless Blake; How different from the liners That roared in Nelson's wake!
Majestic then and lofty They towered above the deep, Bestowing beauty on the main Their forms were framed to keep.
Sail over sail they offered Their canvas to the wind, That mimicked in its whiteness The wake they swept behind.
No wonder kingly seamen Were bred in ships like those; No wonder that they made them A terror to their foes.
For in the grace and beauty They shed upon the sea Man found the inspiration That kept him brave and free.
And man and ship together Played well that noble part, Until their oaken sides became A symbol for his heart.
But look! where black and formless Those modern monsters ride A blot upon the seascape, A load upon the tide.
Hark! from the massive flagship Breathes out the morning gun; Exultant in its mission Her ensign meets the sun.
From battle-ship and cruiser, From merchantman and fort, The cross of red makes glorious The strong and ancient port.
Then with a heart that follows I turn my eager eyes To where at honored moorings The grand old victor lies.
There floats the same proud bunting She swept along the breeze The day that France was broken And driven from the seas.
There in prophetic splendor It crowns her shapely spar, The promise of a future-- The final Trafalgar.
AT ANCHOR.
Sights of sail are caught on the edge-- Black coasters waiting the flood; Nest of spars that stroke like the sedge Long rivers of sunset blood.
Gleam of lamps low down in the west, Gulls crying over the bar, Sea as still as a child at breast, Moon following up a star.
That is to-night--and our own to twist Round memory's finger and hold, As guerdon for those we've lost or missed While fretting and fighting for gold.
FROM THE CLIFF.
The wind is fresh, the wind is foul; The clouds are long and low and gray; The rocky headland wears a cowl, And looks a monk who kneels to pray And tell his beads for parting souls: While out beyond the bar there rolls A sullen swell, and white and high Along the cliffs the breakers fly.
Then tack on tack she weathers out-- Her topsails shiver in the wind; Down goes the helm, she flies about, And leaping off soon leaves behind The rocky dangers, and has past The headland, when the wrathful blast, Bursts from the cloud and wild and grand Hurls in the sea against the land.
THEN AND NOW.
The wind has changed to happy south, The tide is setting free, As one by one, past harbor mouth, Our ships stand out to sea. We watch them pass, my love and I; We shout Halloo! from shore. Good-bye! Good-bye! the sailors cry; Good-bye! the breakers roar.
The wind has turned to icy north, Full bitterly it blows; The sea is wroth, and white with froth, And no ship comes or goes. We watch for them, my love and I; We linger on the shore. The breakers cry Ho! ho! Good-bye!-- Good-bye for evermore.
THE SHIPS.
Sing the sea, sing the ships, Sing the sea and its ships, With the lightness and the brightness Of the foam about their lips; When reaching off to seaward, When running down to leeward, When beating up to port with the pilot at the fore; When racing down the Trade, Or ratching half afraid With a lookout on the yard for the marks along the shore.
Sing them when you frame them, Sing them when you name them, Sing them as you sing the woman whom you love; For the world of life they lose you, For the home that they refuse you, For the sea that deeps beneath them and the sky that crowns above.
Sing them when they leave you, Sing them when they grieve you, Going down the harbor with a smoky tug along; With the yards braced this and that, And the anchor at the cat, And the bunting saying good-bye to the watching, waving throng.
Sing them when they need you, Sing them when they speed you, With their stems making trouble for the steep Atlantic seas; When the channel as she rolls Heaps the foam along the poles, And the decks fore-and-aft are awash above your knees.
Sing them when they spring you, Sing them when they wing you, Rolling down the Trades with a breeze that never shifts; When the crew they quite forget What is meant by cold and wet, And the feel of the braces and the sheets and the lifts.
Sing them when they mock you, Sing them when they shock you, Smothered under topsails with the kingly Horn abeam; When the wind flies round about And the watch is always out, And all hands are wishing that they'd signed to go in steam.
Sing the sea, sing the ships, Sing the sea and its ships, With the molding and the folding Of the wave about their form; Sing them when they teach us, Sing them when they preach us, A lesson in the calm and a sermon in the storm.
Sing them when the dying Wind has left them lying With the canvas in the brails a-tremble to the rolls; And the ocean is so still That you wonder if it will Give back to her who bore them those legions of lost souls.
Sing the sea, sing the ships, Sing the sea and its ships, With the forming and the storming Of the wave athwart their bows; Sing them when you clear them, Sing them when you steer them, For the strength that they have given And the courage they arouse.
For the nation that forgets them, For the nation that regrets them, Is a nation that is dying as the nations all must die; For there never yet was state That met the Roman fate While she had a ship to guard her and a sailor to stand by.
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