Golden Numbers Part 36

_Tacking s.h.i.+p Off Sh.o.r.e_[17]

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 light-house 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; And 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.

[Footnote 17: _By courtesy of The Churchman._]

_Windla.s.s Song_

Heave at the windla.s.s!--Heave O, cheerly, men!

Heave all at once, with a will!

The tide quickly making, Our cordage a-creaking, The water has put on a frill, Heave O!

Fare you well, sweethearts!--Heave O, cheerly, men!

Fare you well, frolic and sport!

The good s.h.i.+p all ready, Each dog-vane is steady, The wind blowing dead out of port, Heave O!

Once in blue water--Heave O, cheerly, men!

Blow it from north or from south; She'll stand to it tightly, And curtsey politely, And carry a bone in her mouth, Heave O!

Short cruise or long cruise--Heave O, cheerly, men!

Jolly Jack Tar thinks it one.

No lat.i.tude dreads he Of White, Black, or Red Sea, Great icebergs, or tropical sun, Heave O!

One other turn, and Heave O, cheerly, men!

Heave, and good-bye to the sh.o.r.e!

Our money, how went it?

We shared it and spent it; Next year we'll come back with some more, Heave O!

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

_The Coral Grove_

Deep in the wave is a coral grove, Where the purple mullet and gold-fish rove; Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue That never are wet with falling dew, But in bright and changeful beauty s.h.i.+ne, Far down in the green and gla.s.sy brine.

The floor is of sand, like the mountain drift; And the pearl-sh.e.l.l spangle the flinty snow; From coral rocks the sea-plants lift Their boughs where the tides and billows flow.

The water is calm and still below, For the winds and waves are absent there; And the sands are bright as the stars that glow In the motionless fields of upper air.

There, with its waving blade of green, The sea-flag streams through the silent water; And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen To blush like a banner bathed in slaughter.

There, with a light and easy motion, The fan-coral sweeps through the clear deep sea; And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean Are bending like corn on the upland lea; And life, in rare and beautiful forms, Is sporting amid those bowers of stone, And is safe when the wrathful Spirit of storms Has made the top of the wave his own.

And when the s.h.i.+p from his fury flies, Where the myriad voices of Ocean roar; When the wind-G.o.d frowns in the murky skies, And demons are waiting the wreck on sh.o.r.e,-- Then, far below, in the peaceful sea, The purple mullet and gold-fish rove, While the waters murmur tranquilly Through the bending twigs of the coral grove.

JAMES GATES PERCIVAL.

_The Sh.e.l.l_

See what a lovely sh.e.l.l, Small and pure as a pearl, Lying close to my foot, Frail, but a work divine, Made so fairily well With delicate spire and whorl, How exquisitely minute, A miracle of design!

What is it? a learned man Could give it a clumsy name.

Let him name it who can, The beauty would be the same.

The tiny cell is forlorn, Void of the little living will That made it stir on the sh.o.r.e.

Did he stand at the diamond door Of his house in a rainbow frill?

Did he push, when he was uncurled, A golden foot or a fairy horn Through his dim water-world?

Slight, to be crush'd with a tap Of my finger-nail on the sand!

Small, but a work divine!

Frail, but of force to withstand, Year upon year, the shock Of cataract seas that snap The three-decker's oaken spine Athwart the ledges of rock, Here on the Breton strand!

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.