While Fleasure allures to her treacherous mael
And the sailor finds hell where they promised a Home.
Now robbed of his wages and stripped of his clothes,
Ashamed, he escapes from his merciless foes;
And, doomed like an exile from kindred to roam,
Again is the dreary forecastle his Home.
Though sore he may labour, deep laden with sin, Who points through the veil to the anchorage within
To the rest, when the penitent ceases to roam,
In the glory where Jesus prepares him a Home?
But Pity appeals to the heart of the Fair-
And, lo! the materials around them repair;
Oh, soon may the shouting of grace hail the dome,
That offers the sea-weary sailor a Home!
Yes, build for the son of old Ocean a nest;
Give health to his body and peace to his breast;
Let his mind with the sage and evangelist roam,
And anticipate heaven in the sweetness of Home.
NEAR these a sailor, in that hut of thatch, (A fish-boat's cabin is its nearest match), Dwells, and the dungeon is to him a seat, Large as he wishes-in his view complete: A lockless coffer and a lidless hutch,
That hold his stores, have room for twice as much.
His one spare shirt, long glass, and iron box,
Lie all in view; no need has he for locks:
Here he abides, and, as our strangers pass,
He shows the shipping, he presents the glass;
He makes (unasked) their ports and business known,
And (kindly heard) turns quickly to his own,
Of noble captains, heroes every one,—
You might as soon have made the steeple run.
And then his messmates, if you're pleased to stay,
He'll one by one the gallant souls display;
And as the story verges to an end,
He'll wind from deed to deed, from friend to friend;
He'll speak of those long lost, the brave of old,
As princes generous, and as heroes bold;
Then will his feelings rise, till you may trace
Gloom, like a cloud, frown o'er his manly face,
And then a tear or two, which sting his pride
These he will dash indignantly aside,
And splice his tale;-now take him from his cot,
And for some cleaner berth exchange his lot,
How will he all that cruel aid deplore?
His heart will break, and he will fight no more.
THE VETERAN TAR
A MARINER, whom fate compelled
To make his home ashore,
Lived in yon cottage on the mount,
With ivy mantled o'er,
Because he could not breathe beyond
The sound of ocean's roar.
He placed yon vane upon the roof,
To mark how stood the wind;
For breathless days and breezy days
Brought back old times to mind,
When rocked amid the shrouds, or on
The sunny deck reclined.
And in his spot of garden ground,
All ocean plants were met—
Salt-lavender, that lacks perfume,
With scented mignonette;
And, blending with the roses' bloom,
Sea-thistles freaked with jet.
Models of cannoned ships of war,
Rigged out in gallant style;
Pictures of Camperdown's red fight,
And Nelson at the Nile,
Were round his cabin hung,-his hours, When lonely, to beguile.
And there were charts and soundings, made
By Anson, Cook, and Bligh; Fractures of coral from the deep,
And storm-stones from the sky; Shells from the shore of gay Brazil; Stuffed birds, and fishes dry.
Old Simon had an orphan been,
No relative had he;
Even from his childhood was he seen
A haunter of the quay;
So, at the age of raw thirteen,
He took him to the sea.
Four years on board a merchantman
He sailed, a growing lad;
And all the isles of Western Ind,
In endless summer clad,
He knew, from pastoral St Lucie
To palmy Trinidad.
But sterner life was in his thoughts,
When, 'mid the sea-fight's jar,
Stooped victory from the battered shrouds
To crown the British tar;
'Twas then he went, a volunteer, On board a ship of war.
Through forty years of storm and shine,
He ploughed the changeful deep,
From where beneath the tropic line
The winged fishes leap,
To where frost seals the polar seas
In everlasting sleep.
I recollect the brave old man :
Methinks upon my view
He comes again—his varnished hat,
Striped shirt, and jacket blue;
His bronzed and weather-beaten cheek,
Keen eye, and plaited queue.
Yon turfen bench the veteran loved,
Beneath the threshold tree;
For, from that spot he could survey
That element, where he so long
Had been a rover free:
And lighted up his faded face,
When, drifting in the gale,
He with his telescope could catch,
Far off, a coming sail;
It was a music to his ear,
To list the sea-mew's wail.
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