Blue inlets and their crystal creeks, Through deeps below, A duplicated golden glow. Far, vague, and dim, The gray smoke stands Here Ischia smiles O'er liquid miles; And yonder, bluest of the isles, Calm Capri waits, Her sapphire gates I heed not, if My rippling skiff Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff; With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Under the walls of Paradise. Under the walls Where swells and falls The Bay's deep breast at intervals, Blown softly by, A cloud upon this liquid sky. The day, so mild, Is Heaven's own child, With Earth and Ocean reconciled; The airs I feel Around me steal Are murmuring to the murmuring keel. Drifting Over the rail My hand I trail Within the shadow of the sail, A joy intense, The cooling sense Glides down my drowsy indolence. With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Where Summer sings and never dies,― She glows and shines Her children, hid The cliffs amid, Are gamboling with the gamboling kid; Or down the walls, With tipsy calls, Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls. The fisher's child, With tresses wild, Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled, With glowing lips Sings as she skips, Or gazes at the far-off ships. Yon deep bark goes Where traffic blows, From lands of sun to lands of snows; This happier one, Its course is run From lands of snow to lands of sun. O happy ship, To rise and dip, With the blue crystal at your lip! O happy crew, My heart with you Sails, and sails, and sings anew! 1565 Under the walls of Paradise! Thomas Buchanan Read [1822-1872] "HOW'S MY BOY?" "Ho, sailor of the sea! How's my boy-my boy?" "What's your boy's name, good wife, And in what good ship sailed he?” "My boy John He that went to sea What care I for the ship, sailor? My boy's my boy to me. "You come back from sea And not know my John? I might as well have asked some landsman Yonder down in the town. There's not an ass in all the parish But he knows my John. "How's my boy-my boy? And unless you let me know, Brass button or no, sailor, Sure his ship was the Jolly Briton."- "And why should I speak low, sailor, About my own boy John? If I was loud as I am proud I'd sing him o'er the town! The Long White Seam Why should I speak low, sailor?" "How's my boy-my boy? Be she afloat, or be she aground, Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound, I say, how's my John?" "Every man on board went down, Every man aboard her." "How's my boy-my boy? What care I for the men, sailor? I'm not their mother How's my boy--my boy? Tell me of him and no other! How's my boy-my boy?" 1567 Sydney Dobell [1824-1874] THE LONG WHITE SEAM As I came round the harbor buoy, No wave the land-locked water stirred, It's aye sewing ashore, my dear, It's reef and furl, and haul the line, I climbed to reach her cottage door; O sweetly my love sings! Like a shaft of light her voice breaks forth, My soul to meet it springs As the shining water leaped of old, When stirred by angel wings. Aye longing to list anew, Awake and in my dream, But never a song she sang like this, Fair fall the lights, the harbor lights, And peace drop down on that low roof And the voice, my dear, that rang so clear For O, for O, with brows bent low Jean Ingelow [1820-1897] STORM SONG THE clouds are scudding across the moon; A misty light is on the sea; The wind in the shrouds has a wintry tune, Brothers, a night of terror and gloom Speaks in the cloud and gathering roar; Thank God, He has given us broad sea-room, A thousand miles from shore. Down with the hatches on those who sleep! Though the rigging shrick in his terrible grip, |