THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP.
WHAT hid'st thou in thy treasure-caves and cells?
Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main !-
Pale glistening pearls and rainbow-colored shells,
Bright things which gleam unrecked of and
in vain !
Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea!
We ask not such from thee.
Yet more, the depths have more !—what wealth untold,
Far down, and shining through their stillness lies!
Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold, Won from ten thousand royal argosies! — Sweepo'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main! Earth claims not these again.
Yet more, the depths have more! - thy waves have rolled
Above the cities of a world gone by!
Sand hath filled up the palaces of old,
Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry.
Dash o'er them, Ocean, in thy scornful play!
Man yields them to decay.
Yet more, the billows and the depths have more! High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast! They hear not now the booming waters roar,
The battle-thunders will not break their rest. Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave! Give back the true and brave!
Give back the lost and lovely!-those for whom The place was kept at board and hearth so long! The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom,
And the vain yearning woke midst festal song! Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown,But all is not thine own.
To thee the love of woman hath gone down,
Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head,
O'er youth's bright locks, and beauty's flowery
I stand at the wheel and with eager eye
To sea and to sky and to shore I gaze,
Till the muttered order of 66 FULL AND BY!"
Is suddenly changed to "FULL FOR STAYS!"
The ship 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 coils 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 stormcloud's frown.
High o'er the knight-heads flies the spray,
And my shoulder stiff to the wheel I lay,
As we meet the shock of the plunging sea;
As I answer, "AY, AY, SIR! HARD A LEE!"
With the swerving leap of a startled steed
The dangerous shoals on the lee recede,
The ship flies fast in the eye of the wind,
And the headland white we have left behind.
The topsails flutter, the jibs collapse
The spanker slaps and the mainsail flaps,
And belly and tug at the groaning cleats;
And thunders the order, "TACKS AND SHEETS!"
'Mid the rattle of blocks and the tramp of the
Hisses the rain of the rushing 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!" 't is 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 shingly shore. 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 shore let the good ship 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.
SONG OF THE EMIGRANTS IN BER-
MUDA.
WHERE the remote Bermudas ride
In the ocean's bosom unespied,
From a small boat that rowed along
The listening winds received this song:
"What should we do but sing His praise
That led us through the watery maze
Where he the huge sea monsters wracks,
That lift the deep upon their backs,
Unto an isle so long unknown,
And yet far kinder than our own?
He lands us on a grassy stage,
Safe from the storms, and prelate's rage;
He gave us this eternal spring
Which here enamels everything,
And sends the fowls to us in care
On daily visits through the air.
He hangs in shades the orange bright
Like golden lamps in a green night,
And does in the pomegranates close
Jewels more rich than Ormus shows:
He makes the figs our mouths to meet,
And throws the melons at our feet;
But apples, plants of such a price,
No tree could ever bear them twice.
With cedars chosen by his hand
From Lebanon he stores the land;
And makes the hollow seas that roar
Proclaim the ambergris on shore.
He cast (of which we rather boast)
The gospel's pearl upon our coast;
And in these rocks for us did frame
A temple where to sound his name.
O let our voice his praise exalt
Till it arrive at heaven's vault,
Which then perhaps rebounding may
Echo beyond the Mexique bay!"
Thus sung they in the English boat
A holy and a cheerful note;
And all the way, to guide their chime,
With falling oars they kept the time.
O'ER the glad waters of the dark blue sea,
Our thoughts as boundless and our souls as free,
Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam,
Survey our empire, and behold our home!
These are our realms, no limits to their sway, -
Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey.
Ours the wild life in tumult still to range
From toil to rest, and joy in every change.
O, who can tell? not thou, luxurious slave!
Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving wave;
Not thon, vain lord of wantonness and case!
Whom slumber soothes not, pleasure cannot
O, who can tell save he whose heart hath tried, And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide, The exulting sense, the pulse's maddening play, That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way! That for itself can woo the approaching fight; And turn what some deem danger to delight; That seeks what cravens shun with more than
And where the feebler faint can only feel Feel to the rising bosom's inmost core, Its hope awaken and its spirit soar?
No dread of death- if with us die our foes-
Save that it seems even duller than repose:
Come when it will we snatch the life of life-
When lost what recks it - by disease or strife?
Let him who crawls enamored of decay,.
Cling to his couch and sicken years away;
Heave his thick breath, and shake his palsied
head:
Ours the fresh turf, and not the feverish bed.
While gasp by gasp he falters forth his soul,
Ours with one pang-one bound- escapes con-
trol.
His corse may boast its urn and narrow cave,
And they who loathed his life may gild his grave:
Ours are the tears, though few, sincerely shed,
When Ocean shrouds and sepulchres our dead.
For us, even banquets fond regrets supply
In the red cup that crowns our memory;
And the brief epitaph in danger's day,
When those who win at length divide the prey,
And cry, Remembrance saddening o'er each brow,
How had the brave who fell exulted now!
JUST in thy mould and beauteous in thy form,
Gentle in roll and buoyant on the surge,
Light as the sea-fowl rocking in the storm,
In breeze and gale thy onward course we urge,
My water-queen!
More light and swift than thou none thread the
With surer keel or steadier on its path,
We brave each waste of ocean-mystery
And laugh to hear the howling tempest's wrath,
For we are thine.
Trust to the mystic power that points thy way,
Trust to the eye that pierces from afar ;
Trust the red meteors that around thee play,
And, fearless, trust the Sea-Green Lady's Star,
Thou bark divine!"
FROM THE BRITISH FLEET."
DESERTED by the waning moon,
When skies proclaim night's cheerless noon,
On tower, or fort, or tented ground
The sentry walks his lonely round;
And should a footstep haply stray
Where caution marks the guarded way,
IN THE MEDITERRANEAN.
ON deck, beneath the awning,
I dozing lay and yawning;
It was the gray of dawning.
Ere yet the sun arose ·
And above the funnel's roaring, And the fitful wind's deploring, I heard the cabin snoring
With universal nose.
I could hear the passengers snorting, —
I envied their disporting, -
Vainly I was courting
The pleasure of a doze.
So I lay, and wondered why light
Came not, and watched the twilight,
And the glimmer of the skylight,
That shot across the deck;
And the binnacle pale and steady,
And the dull glimpse of the dead-eye,
And the sparks in fiery eddy
That whirled from the chimney neck.
In our jovial floating prison
There was sleep from fore to mizzen,
And never a star had risen
The hazy sky to speck.
Strange company we harbored:
We'd a hundred Jews to larboard,
Unwashed, uncombed, unbarbered, -
Jews black and brown and gray.
Who did naught but scratch and pray. Their dirty children puking, Their dirty saucepans cooking, Their dirty fingers hooking
Their swarming fleas away.
To starboard Turks and Greeks were,
Whiskered and brown their cheeks were,
Enormous wide their breeks were, -
Their pipes did puff away;
Each on his mat allotted
In silence smoked and squatted,
Whilst round their children trotted
In pretty, pleasant play.
He can't but smile who traces
The smiles on those brown faces,
And the pretty, prattling graces
Of those small heathens gay.
And so the hours kept tolling;
And through the ocean rolling
Went the brave Iberia bowling,
Before the break of day,—
When a squall, upon a sudden,
Came o'er the waters scudding;
And the clouds began to gather,
And the sea was lashed to lather,
And the lowering thunder grumbled,
And the lightning jumped and tumbled,
And the ship, and all the ocean,
Woke up in wild commotion.
Then the wind set up a howling,
And the poodle dog a yowling,
And the cocks began a crowing,
And the old cow raised a lowing,
As she heard the tempest blowing;
And fowls and geese did cackle,
And the cordage and the tackle
Began to shrick and crackle;
And the spray dashed o'er the funnels,
And down the deck in runnels;
And the rushing water soaks all,
From the seamen in the fo'ksal
To the stokers, whose black faces
Peer out of their bed-places;
And the captain he was bawling,
And the sailors pulling, hauling,
And the quarter-deck tarpauling
Was shivered in the squalling;
And the passengers awaken,
Most pitifully shaken ;
And the steward jumps up, and hastens
For the necessary basins.
Then the Greeks they groaned and quivered.
And they knelt and moaned and shivered,
As the plunging waters met them,
And splashed and overset them;
And they called in their emergence
Upon countless saints and virgins;
And their marrowbones are bended,
And they think the world is ended.
And the Turkish women for'ard
Were frightened and behorrored;
And, shrieking and bewildering,
The mothers clutched their children;
The men sang
"Allah! Illah!
Mashallah Bismillah !".
As the warring waters doused them,
And splashed them and soused them;
And they called upon the Prophet,
Who thought but little of it.
Then all the fleas in Jewry
Jumped up and bit like fury;
And the progeny of Jacob
Did on the main-deck wake up,
(I wot those greasy Rabbins
Would never pay for cabins ;)
And each man moaned and jabbered in
His filthy Jewish gabardine,
In woe and lamentation,
And howling consternation.
And the splashing water drenches
Their dirty brats and wenches;
And they crawl from bales and benches,
In a hundred thousand stenches.
This was the white squall famous,
Which latterly o'ercame us,
And which all will well remember,
On the 28th September;
When a Prussian captain of Lancers
(Those tight-laced, whiskered prancers)
Came on the deck astonished,
By that wild squall admonished,
And wondering cried, "Potz tausend,
Wie ist der Stürm jetzt brausend?"
And looked at Captain Lewis,
Who calmly stood and blew his
Cigar in all the bustle,
And scorned the tempest's tussle.
And oft we've thought hereafter
How he beat the storm to laughter;
For well he knew his vessel
With that vain wind could wrestle;
And when a wreck we thought her,
And doomed ourselves to slaughter,
How gayly he fought her,
And through the hubbub brought her,
And as the tempest caught her,
Cried, "George, some brandy and water!"
But his little daughter whispered, As she took his icy hand, "Is n't God upon the ocean
Just the same as on the land?”
Then we kissed the little maiden,
And we spoke in better cheer,
And we anchored safe in harbor
When the morn was shining clear.
JAMES T. FIELDS.
WHEN in the storm on Albion's coast,
The night-watch guards his wary post,
From thoughts of danger free,
He marks some vessel's dusky form,
And hears, amid the howling storm,.
The minute-gun at sea.
Swift on the shore a hardy few
The life-boat man with gallant crew
And dare the dangerous wave;
Through the wild surf they cleave their way,
Lost in the foam, nor know dismay,
For they go the crew to save.
But, O, what rapture fills each breast
Of the hopeless crew of the ship distressed!
Then, landed safe, what joy to tell
Of all the dangers that befell!
Then is heard no more,
By the watch on shore,
The minute-gun at sea.
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