| |
1896
THEY christened my brother of old— | |
| And a saintly name he bears— | |
| They gave him his place to hold | |
| At the head of the belfry-stairs, | |
| Where the minster-towers stand | 5 |
| And the breeding kestrels cry. | |
| Would I change with my brother a league inland? | |
| (Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I! | |
| |
| In the flush of the hot June prime, | |
| O’er sleek flood-tides afire, | 10 |
| I hear him hurry the chime | |
| To the bidding of checked Desire; | |
| Till the sweated ringers tire | |
| And the wild bob-majors die. | |
| Could I wait for my turn in the godly choir? | 15 |
| (Shoal! Ware shoal!) Not I! | |
| |
| When the smoking scud is blown— | |
| When the greasy wind-rack lowers— | |
| Apart and at peace and alone, | |
| He counts the changeless hours. | 20 |
| He wars with darkling Powers | |
| (I war with a darkling sea); | |
| Would he stoop to my work in the gusty mirk? | |
| (Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not he! | |
| |
| There was never a priest to pray, | 25 |
| There was never a hand to toll, | |
| When they made me guard of the bay, | |
| And moored me over the shoal. | |
| I rock, I reel, and I roll— | |
| My four great hammers ply— | 30 |
| Could I speak or be still at the Church’s will? | |
| (Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I! | |
| |
| The landward marks have failed, | |
| The fog-bank glides unguessed, | |
| The seaward lights are veiled, | 35 |
| The spent deep feigns her rest: | |
| But my ear is laid to her breast, | |
| I lift to the swell—I cry! | |
| Could I wait in sloth on the Church’s oath? | |
| (Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I! | 40 |
| |
| At the careless end of night | |
| I thrill to the nearing screw; | |
| I turn in the clearing light | |
| And I call to the drowsy crew; | |
| And the mud boils foul and blue | 45 |
| As the blind bow backs away. | |
| Will they give me their thanks if they clear the banks? | |
| (Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not they! | |
| |
| The beach-pools cake and skim, | |
| The bursting spray-heads freeze, | 50 |
| I gather on crown and rim | |
| The grey, grained ice of the seas, | |
| Where, sheathed from bitt to trees, | |
| The plunging colliers lie. | |
| Would I barter my place for the Church’s grace? | 55 |
| (Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I! | |
| |
| Through the blur of the whirling snow, | |
| Or the black of the inky sleet, | |
| The lanterns gather and grow, | |
| And I look for the homeward fleet. | 60 |
| Rattle of block and sheet— | |
| “Ready about—stand by!” | |
| Shall I ask them a fee ere they fetch the quay? | |
| (Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I! | |
| |
| I dip and I surge and I swing | 65 |
| In the rip of the racing tide, | |
| By the gates of doom I sing, | |
| On the horns of death I ride. | |
| A ship-length overside, | |
| Between the course and the sand, | 70 |
| Fretted and bound I bide | |
| Peril whereof I cry. | |
| Would I change with my brother a league inland? | |
| (Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I! | |
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