High o'er the knight-heads flies the spray, As I answer, “Ay, ay, sir! Ha-a-rd a-lee!” With the swerving leap of a startled steed The ship 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; The spanker slats, and the mainsail flaps; And thunders the order, "Tacks and sheets!" 5 10 'Mid the rattle of blocks and the tramp of the crew, 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, 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? And the captain's breath once more comes free. And so off shore let the good ship fly; Eight bells have struck, and my watch is below. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT THANATOPSIS To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language; for his gayer hours 10 She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty, and she glides Into his darker musings, with a mild And healing sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts 15 Of the last bitter hour come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, To Nature's teaching, while from all around Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee shall claim Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again, To be a brother to the insensible rock And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain Yet not to thine eternal resting-place the vales 5 10 15 That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, 20 Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste, Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, Take the wings Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness, 25 25 Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound, The flight of years began, have laid them down Take note of thy departure? All that breathe His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes 20 By those, who in their turn shall follow them. So live, that when thy summons comes to join To that mysterious realm, where each shall take 25 Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, |