| |
| THE WEATHER-LEECH of the topsail shivers, | |
| 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, | 5 |
| 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 shore I gaze, | 10 |
| Till the muttered order of “Full and by!” | |
| Is suddenly changed for “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, | 15 |
| 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. | 20 |
| |
| 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; | 25 |
| 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; | 30 |
| 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 ship flies fast in the eye of the wind, | |
| The dangerous shoals on the lee recede, | 35 |
| 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!” | 40 |
| |
| ’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, | 45 |
| 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: | 50 |
| 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!” | 55 |
| 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. | 60 |
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