And the rattle rose in Reuben's throat and he cast his soul with a cry, And "Gone already?" Tom Hall he said. time for me to die." "Then it's His eyes were heavy with great sleep and yearning for the land, And he spoke as a man that talks in dreams, his wound beneath his hand. "Oh, there comes no good o' the westering wind that backs against the sun; Wash down the decks-they're all too red-and share the skins and run, Baltic, Stralsund, and Northern Light-clean share and share for all, You'll find the fleets off Tolstoi Mees, but you will not find Tom Hall. Evil he did in shoal-water and blacker sin on the deep, But now he's sick of watch and trick and now he'll turn and sleep. He'll have no more of the crawling sea that made him suffer so, But he'll lie down on the killing-grounds where the holluschickie go. And west you'll sail and south again, beyond the seafog's rim, And tell the Yoshiwara girls to burn a stick for him. And you'll not weight him by the heels and dump him overside, But carry him up to the sand-hollows to die as Bering died, And make a place for Reuben Paine that knows the fight was fair, And leave the two that did the wrong to talk it over there!" Half-steam ahead by guess and lead, for the sun is mostly veiled Through fog to fog,by luck and log,sail ye as Bering sailed; And if the light shall lift aright to give your landfall plain, North and by west, from Zapne Crest, ye raise the Crosses Twain. Fair marks are they to the inner bay, the reckless poacher knows What time the scarred see-catchie lead their sleek seraglios. Ever they hear the floe-pack clear, and the blast of the old bull-whale, And the deep seal-roar that beats off-shore above the loudest gale. Ever they wait the winter's hate as the thundering boorga calls, Where northward look they to St. George, and westward to St. Paul's. Ever they greet the hunted fleet-lone keels off headlands drear When the sealing-schooners flit that way at hazard year by year. Ever in Yokohama port men tell the tale anew Of a hidden sea and a hidden fight, When the Baltic ran from the Northern Light And the Stralsund fought the two. THE DERELICT And reports the derelict Mary Pollock still at sea. SHIPPING NEWS. I was the staunchest of our fleet Man made me, and my will Is to my maker still, Whom now the currents con, the rollers steer Lifting forlorn to spy Trailed smoke along the sky, Falling afraid lest any keel come near! Wrenched as the lips of thirst, Wried, dried, and split and burst, Bone-bleached my decks, wind-scoured to the graining; And jarred at every roll The gear that was my soul Answers the anguish of my beams' complaining. For life that crammed me full, Gangs of the prying gull That shriek and scrabble on the riven hatches! For roar that dumbed the gale, My hawse-pipes guttering wail, Sobbing my heart out through the uncounted watches! Blind in the hot blue ring Through all my points I swingSwing and return to shift the sun anew. Blind in my well-known sky I hear the stars go by, Mocking the prow that cannot hold one true! White on my wasted path Wave after wave in wrath Frets 'gainst his fellow, warring where to send me. Flung forward, heaved aside, Witless and dazed I bide The mercy of the comber that shall end me. North where the bergs careen, The spray of seas unseen Smokes round my head and freezes in the falling; South where the corals breed, The footless, floating weed Folds me and fouls me, strake on strake upcrawling. I that was clean to run My race against the sun Strength on the deep, am bawd to all disaster |