Verse > Anthologies > Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. > Poems of Places > England
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed.  Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
England: Vols. I–IV.  1876–79.
The Steamship
Oliver Wendell Holmes (1809–1894)
SEE how yon flaming herald treads
    The ridged and rolling waves,
As, crashing o’er their crested heads,
    She bows her surly slaves!
With foam before and fire behind,        5
    She rends the clinging sea,
That flies before the roaring wind,
    Beneath her hissing lee.
The morning spray, like sea-born flowers,
    With heaped and glistening bells,        10
Falls round her fast in ringing showers,
    With every wave that swells;
And, flaming o’er the midnight deep,
    In lurid fringes thrown,
The living gems of ocean sweep        15
    Along her flashing zone.
With clashing wheel, and lifting keel,
    And smoking torch on high,
When winds are loud, and billows reel,
    She thunders foaming by!        20
When seas are silent and serene,
    With even beam she glides,
The sunshine glimmering through the green
    That skirts her gleaming sides.
Now, like a wild nymph, far apart        25
    She veils her shadowy form,
The beating of her restless heart
    Still sounding through the storm;
Now answers, like a courtly dame,
    The reddening surges o’er,        30
With flying scarf of spangled flame,
    The Pharos of the shore.
To-night yon pilot shall not sleep,
    Who trims his narrowed sail;
To-night yon frigate scarce shall keep        35
    Her broad breast to the gale;
And many a foresail, scooped and strained,
    Shall break from yard and stay,
Before this smoky wreath has stained
    The rising mist of day.        40
Hark! hark! I hear yon whistling shroud,
    I see yon quivering mast;
The black throat of the hunted cloud
    Is panting forth the blast!
An hour, and, whirled like winnowing chaff,        45
    The giant surge shall fling
His tresses o’er yon pennon-staff,
    White as the sea-bird’s wing!
Yet rest, ye wanderers of the deep;
    Nor wind nor wave shall tire        50
Those fleshless arms, whose pulses leap
    With floods of living fire;
Sleep on,—and when the morning light
    Streams o’er the shining bay,
O, think of those for whom the night        55
    Shall never wake in day!

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