On the Quay 1559 Oh, speed you, white-winged ship of mine, oh, speed you to the sea, Some other day, some other tide, come back again for me; Come back with all the memories, the joys and e'en the pain, And take me to the golden hills of boyhood once again. ON THE QUAY I've never traveled for more'n a day, I never was one to roam, But I likes to sit on the busy quay, Watchin' the ships that says to me— "Always somebody goin' away, Somebody gettin' home." I likes to think that the world's so wide'Tis grand to be livin' there, Takin' a part in its goin's on. . . . Ah, now ye're laughin' at poor old John, Talkin' o' works o' the world wi' pride As if he was doin' his share! But laugh if ye will! When ye're old as me To look at the world-an' love it too!- Oh! 'tisn't all sorrow an' pain to see The work o' another man. 'Tis good when the heart grows big at last, Too big for trouble to fill Wi' room for the things that was only stuff When workin' an' winnin' seemed more'n enough— Room for the world, the world so vast, Wi' its peoples an' all their skill. That's what I'm thinkin' on all the days An' the ships do make me think the most I sees the things that a sailor brings, I hears the stories he tells. . . . 'Tis surely a wonderful world, indeed! An' I loves the ships more every day Though I never was one to roam. Oh! the ships is comfortin' sights to see, Somebody gettin' home." John Joy Bell [1871 THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR COME, see the Dolphin's anchor forged! 'tis at a white heat now The bellows ceased, the flames decreased; though, on the forge's brow, The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound, And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round; All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare, Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass there. The windlass strains the tackle-chains-the black mold heaves below; And red and deep, a hundred veins burst out at every throe. It rises, roars, rends all outright--O Vulcan, what a glow! 'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright-the high sun shines not so! The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery fearful show! The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy lurid row The Forging of the Anchor 1561 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 squashing blow; 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! 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 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 oceanfoam. In livid and obdurate gloom, he darkens down at last; O deep sea-diver, who might then behold such sights as thou? The hoary monster's palaces!—Methinks what joy 'twere now To go plumb-plunging down, amid the assembly 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; scorn: To leap down on the kraken's back, where 'mid Norwegian isles He lies, a lubber anchorage for sudden shallowed milesTill, 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 Shell-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. Drifting 1563 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, 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 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 |