Verses 1889-1896
полная версия
Аннотация
Читать онлайн
- -
- 100%
- +
M’ANDREW’S HYMN
Lord, Thou hast made this world below the shadow of a dream, An’, taught by time, I tak’ it so – exceptin’ always Steam. From coupler-flange to spindle-guide I see Thy Hand, O God — Predestination in the stride o’ yon connectin’-rod. John Calvin might ha’ forged the same – enorrmous, certain, slow — Ay, wrought it in the furnace-flame – my “Institutio”. I cannot get my sleep to-night; old bones are hard to please; I’ll stand the middle watch up here – alone wi’ God an’ these My engines, after ninety days o’ race an’ rack an’ strain Through all the seas of all Thy world, slam-bangin’ home again. Slam-bang too much – they knock a wee – the crosshead-gibs are loose; But thirty thousand mile o’ sea has gied them fair excuse.. Fine, clear an’ dark – a full-draught breeze, wi’ Ushant out o’ sight, An’ Ferguson relievin’ Hay. Old girl, ye’ll walk to-night! His wife’s at Plymouth… Seventy — One – Two – Three since he began — Three turns for Mistress Ferguson..and who’s to blame the man? There’s none at any port for me, by drivin’ fast or slow, Since Elsie Campbell went to Thee, Lord, thirty years ago. (The year the Sarah Sands was burned. Oh roads we used to tread, Fra’ Maryhill to Pollokshaws – fra’ Govan to Parkhead!) Not but they’re ceevil on the Board. Ye’ll hear Sir Kenneth say: “Good-morrn, M’Andrew! Back again? An’ how’s your bilge to-day?” Miscallin’ technicalities but handin’ me my chair To drink Madeira wi’ three Earls – the auld Fleet Engineer, That started as a boiler-whelp – when steam and he were low. I mind the time we used to serve a broken pipe wi’ tow. Ten pound was all the pressure then – Eh! Eh! – a man wad drive; An’ here, our workin’ gauges give one hunder fifty-five! We’re creepin’ on wi’ each new rig – less weight an’ larger power: There’ll be the loco-boiler next an’ thirty knots an hour! Thirty an’ more. What I ha’ seen since ocean-steam began Leaves me no doot for the machine: but what about the man? The man that counts, wi’ all his runs, one million mile o’ sea: Four time the span from earth to moon… How far, O Lord, from Thee? That wast beside him night an’ day. Ye mind my first typhoon? It scoughed the skipper on his way to jock wi’ the saloon. Three feet were on the stokehold-floor – just slappin’ to an’ fro — An’ cast me on a furnace-door. I have the marks to show. Marks! I ha’ marks o’ more than burns – deep in my soul an’ black, An’ times like this, when things go smooth, my wickudness comes back. The sins o’ four and forty years, all up an’ down the seas, Clack an’ repeat like valves half-fed… Forgie’s our trespasses. Nights when I’d come on deck to mark, wi’ envy in my gaze, The couples kittlin’ in the dark between the funnel stays; Years when I raked the ports wi’ pride to fill my cup o’ wrong — Judge not, O Lord, my steps aside at Gay Street in Hong-Kong! Blot out the wastrel hours of mine in sin when I abode — Jane Harrigan’s an’ Number Nine, The Reddick an’ Grant Road! An’ waur than all – my crownin’ sin – rank blasphemy an’ wild. I was not four and twenty then – Ye wadna judge a child? I’d seen the Tropics first that run – new fruit, new smells, new air — How could I tell – blind-fou wi’ sun – the Deil was lurkin’ there? By day like playhouse-scenes the shore slid past our sleepy eyes; By night those soft, lasceevious stars leered from those velvet skies, In port (we used no cargo-steam) I’d daunder down the streets — An ijjit grinnin’ in a dream – for shells an’ parrakeets, An’ walkin’-sticks o’ carved bamboo an’ blowfish stuffed an’ dried — Fillin’ my bunk wi’ rubbishry the Chief put overside. Till, off Sambawa Head, Ye mind, I heard a land-breeze ca’, Milk-warm wi’ breath o’ spice an’ bloom: “M’Andrew, come awa’!” Firm, clear an’ low – no haste, no hate – the ghostly whisper went, Just statin’ eevidential facts beyon’ all argument: “Your mither’s God’s a graspin’ deil, the shadow o’ yoursel’, Got out o’ books by meenisters clean daft on Heaven an’ Hell. They mak’ Him in the Broomielaw, o’ Glasgie cold an’ dirt, A jealous, pridefu’ fetich, lad, that’s only strong to hurt, Ye’ll not go back to Him again an’ kiss His red-hot rod, But come wi’ Us” (Now, who were They?) “an’ know the Leevin’ God, That does not kipper souls for sport or break a life in jest, But swells the ripenin’ cocoanuts an’ ripes the woman’s breast.” An’ there it stopped: cut off: no more; that quiet, certain voice — For me, six months o’ twenty-four, to leave or take at choice. ‘Twas on me like a thunderclap – it racked me through an’ through — Temptation past the show o’ speech, unnameable an’ new — The Sin against the Holy Ghost?.. An’ under all, our screw. That storm blew by but left behind her anchor-shiftin’ swell, Thou knowest all my heart an’ mind, Thou knowest, Lord, I fell. Third on the Mary Gloster then, and first that night in Hell! Yet was Thy hand beneath my head, about my feet Thy care — Fra’ Deli clear to Torres Strait, the trial o’ despair, But when we touched the Barrier Reef Thy answer to my prayer! We dared not run that sea by night but lay an’ held our fire, An’ I was drowsin’ on the hatch – sick – sick wi’ doubt an’ tire: “Better the sight of eyes that see than wanderin’ o’ desire!” Ye mind that word? Clear as our gongs – again, an’ once again, When rippin’ down through coral-trash ran out our moorin’-chain; An’ by Thy Grace I had the Light to see my duty plain. Light on the engine-room – no more – bright as our carbons burn. I’ve lost it since a thousand times, but never past return. Obsairve. Per annum we’ll have here two thousand souls aboard — Think not I dare to justify myself before the Lord, But – average fifteen hunder souls safe-borne fra’ port to port — I am o’ service to my kind. Ye wadna blame the thought? Maybe they steam from grace to wrath – to sin by folly led, — It isna mine to judge their path – their lives are on my head. Mine at the last – when all is done it all comes back to me, The fault that leaves six thousand ton a log upon the sea. We’ll tak’ one stretch – three weeks an’ odd by any road ye steer — Fra’ Cape Town east to Wellington – ye need an engineer. Fail there – ye’ve time to weld your shaft – ay, eat it, ere ye’re spoke; Or make Kerguelen under sail – three jiggers burned wi’ smoke! An’ home again, the Rio run: it’s no child’s play to go Steamin’ to bell for fourteen days o’ snow an’ floe an’ blow — The bergs like kelpies overside that girn an’ turn an’ shift Whaur, grindin’ like the Mills o’ God, goes by the big South drift. (Hail, snow an’ ice that praise the Lord: I’ve met them at their work, An’ wished we had anither route or they anither kirk.) Yon’s strain, hard strain, o’ head an’ hand, for though Thy Power brings All skill to naught, Ye’ll understand a man must think o’ things. Then, at the last, we’ll get to port an’ hoist their baggage clear — The passengers, wi’ gloves an’ canes – an’ this is what I’ll hear: “Well, thank ye for a pleasant voyage. The tender’s comin’ now.” While I go testin’ follower-bolts an’ watch the skipper bow. They’ve words for every one but me – shake hands wi’ half the crew, Except the dour Scots engineer, the man they never knew. An’ yet I like the wark for all we’ve dam’ few pickin’s here — No pension, an’ the most we earn’s four hunder pound a year. Better myself abroad? Maybe. I’d sooner starve than sail Wi’ such as call a snifter-rod ross..French for nightingale. Commeesion on my stores? Some do; but I can not afford To lie like stewards wi’ patty-pans – . I’m older than the Board. A bonus on the coal I save? Ou ay, the Scots are close, But when I grudge the strength Ye gave I’ll grudge their food to those. (There’s bricks that I might recommend – an’ clink the fire-bars cruel. No! Welsh – Wangarti at the worst – an’ damn all patent fuel!) Inventions? Ye must stay in port to mak’ a patent pay. My Deeferential Valve-Gear taught me how that business lay, I blame no chaps wi’ clearer head for aught they make or sell. I found that I could not invent an’ look to these – as well. So, wrestled wi’ Apollyon – Nah! – fretted like a bairn — But burned the workin’-plans last run wi’ all I hoped to earn. Ye know how hard an Idol dies, an’ what that meant to me — E’en tak’ it for a sacrifice acceptable to Thee.. Below there! Oiler! What’s your wark? Ye find it runnin’ hard? Ye needn’t swill the cap wi’ oil – this isn’t the Cunard! Ye thought? Ye are not paid to think. Go, sweat that off again! Tck! Tck! It’s deeficult to sweer nor tak’ The Name in vain! Men, ay an’ women, call me stern. Wi’ these to oversee Ye’ll note I’ve little time to burn on social repartee. The bairns see what their elders miss; they’ll hunt me to an’ fro, Till for the sake of – well, a kiss – I tak’ ‘em down below. That minds me of our Viscount loon – Sir Kenneth’s kin – the chap Wi’ Russia leather tennis-shoon an’ spar-decked yachtin’-cap. I showed him round last week, o’er all – an’ at the last says he: “Mister M’Andrew, don’t you think steam spoils romance at sea?” Damned ijjit! I’d been doon that morn to see what ailed the throws, Manholin’, on my back – the cranks three inches off my nose. Romance! Those first-class passengers they like it very well, Printed an’ bound in little books; but why don’t poets tell? I’m sick of all their quirks an’ turns – the loves an’ doves they dream — Lord, send a man like Robbie Burns to sing the Song o’ Steam! To match wi’ Scotia’s noblest speech yon orchestra sublime Whaurto – uplifted like the Just – the tail-rods mark the time. The crank-throws give the double-bass, the feed-pump sobs an’ heaves, An’ now the main eccentrics start their quarrel on the sheaves: Her time, her own appointed time, the rocking link-head bides, Till – hear that note? – the rod’s return whings glimmerin’ through the guides. They’re all awa’! True beat, full power, the clangin’ chorus goes Clear to the tunnel where they sit, my purrin’ dynamos. Interdependence absolute, foreseen, ordained, decreed, To work, Ye’ll note, at any tilt an’ every rate o’ speed. Fra’ skylight-lift to furnace-bars, backed, bolted, braced an’ stayed, An’ singin’ like the Mornin’ Stars for joy that they are made; While, out o’ touch o’ vanity, the sweatin’ thrust-block says: “Not unto us the praise, or man – not unto us the praise!” Now, a’ together, hear them lift their lesson – theirs an’ mine: “Law, Orrder, Duty an’ Restraint, Obedience, Discipline!” Mill, forge an’ try-pit taught them that when roarin’ they arose, An’ whiles I wonder if a soul was gied them wi’ the blows. Oh for a man to weld it then, in one trip-hammer strain, Till even first-class passengers could tell the meanin’ plain! But no one cares except mysel’ that serve an’ understand My seven thousand horse-power here. Eh, Lord! They’re grand – they’re grand! Uplift am I? When first in store the new-made beasties stood, Were Ye cast down that breathed the Word declarin’ all things good? Not so! O’ that warld-liftin’ joy no after-fall could vex, Ye’ve left a glimmer still to cheer the Man – the Arrtifex! That holds, in spite o’ knock and scale, o’ friction, waste an’ slip, An’ by that light – now, mark my word – we’ll build the Perfect Ship. I’ll never last to judge her lines or take her curve – not I. But I ha’ lived an’ I ha’ worked. ‘Be thanks to Thee, Most High! An’ I ha’ done what I ha’ done – judge Thou if ill or well — Always Thy Grace preventin’ me.. Losh! Yon’s the “Stand by” bell. Pilot so soon? His flare it is. The mornin’-watch is set. Well, God be thanked, as I was sayin’, I’m no Pelagian yet. Now I’ll tak’ on.. ‘Morrn, Ferguson. Man, have ye ever thought What your good leddy costs in coal?.. I’ll burn ‘em down to port.THE MIRACLES
I sent a message to my dear — A thousand leagues and more to Her — The dumb sea-levels thrilled to hear, And Lost Atlantis bore to Her. Behind my message hard I came, And nigh had found a grave for me; But that I launched of steel and flame Did war against the wave for me. Uprose the deep, by gale on gale, To bid me change my mind again — He broke his teeth along my rail, And, roaring, swung behind again. I stayed the sun at noon to tell My way across the waste of it; I read the storm before it fell And made the better haste of it. Afar, I hailed the land at night — The towers I built had heard of me — And, ere my rocket reached its height, Had flashed my Love the word of me. Earth sold her chosen men of strength (They lived and strove and died for me) To drive my road a nation’s length, And toss the miles aside for me. I snatched their toil to serve my needs — Too slow their fleetest flew for me — I tired twenty smoking steeds, And bade them bait a new for me. I sent the lightnings forth to see Where hour by hour She waited me. Among ten million one was She, And surely all men hated me! Dawn ran to meet me at my goal — Ah, day no tongue shall tell again! And little folk of little soul Rose up to buy and sell again!THE NATIVE-BORN
We’ve drunk to the Queen – God bless her! — We’ve drunk to our mothers’ land; We’ve drunk to our English brother (But he does not understand); We’ve drunk to the wide creation, And the Cross swings low for the morn; Last toast, and of obligation, A health to the Native-born! They change their skies above them, But not their hearts that roam! We learned from our wistful mothers To call old England “home”; We read of the English skylark, Of the spring in the English lanes, But we screamed with the painted lories As we rode on the dusty plains! They passed with their old-world legends — Their tales of wrong and dearth — Our fathers held by purchase, But we by the right of birth; Our heart’s where they rocked our cradle, Our love where we spent our toil, And our faith and our hope and our honour We pledge to our native soil! I charge you charge your glasses — I charge you drink with me To the men of the Four New Nations, And the Islands of the Sea — To the last least lump of coral That none may stand outside, And our own good pride shall teach us To praise our comrade’s pride! To the hush of the breathless morning On the thin, tin, crackling roofs, To the haze of the burned back-ranges And the dust of the shoeless hoofs — To the risk of a death by drowning, To the risk of a death by drouth — To the men of a million acres, To the Sons of the Golden South! To the Sons of the Golden South (Stand up!), And the life we live and know, Let a fellow sing o’ the little things he cares about, If a fellow fights for the little things he cares about With the weight of a single blow! To the smoke of a hundred coasters, To the sheep on a thousand hills, To the sun that never blisters, To the rain that never chills — To the land of the waiting spring-time, To our five-meal, meat-fed men, To the tall, deep-bosomed women, And the children nine and ten! And the children nine and ten (Stand up!), And the life we live and know, Let a fellow sing o’ the little things he cares about, If a fellow fights for the little things he cares about With the weight of a two-fold blow! To the far-flung fenceless prairie Where the quick cloud-shadows trail, To our neighbour’s barn in the offing And the line of the new-cut rail; To the plough in her league-long furrow With the gray Lake gulls behind — To the weight of a half-year’s winter And the warm wet western wind! To the home of the floods and thunder, To her pale dry healing blue — To the lift of the great Cape combers, And the smell of the baked Karroo. To the growl of the sluicing stamp-head — To the reef and the water-gold, To the last and the largest Empire, To the map that is half unrolled! To our dear dark foster-mothers, To the heathen songs they sung — To the heathen speech we babbled Ere we came to the white man’s tongue. To the cool of our deep verandas — To the blaze of our jewelled main, To the night, to the palms in the moonlight, And the fire-fly in the cane! To the hearth of our people’s people — To her well-ploughed windy sea, To the hush of our dread high-altar Where The Abbey makes us We; To the grist of the slow-ground ages, To the gain that is yours and mine — To the Bank of the Open Credit, To the Power-house of the Line! We’ve drunk to the Queen – God bless her! — We’ve drunk to our mothers’ land; We’ve drunk to our English brother (And we hope he’ll understand). We’ve drunk as much as we’re able, And the Cross swings low for the morn; Last toast – and your foot on the table! — A health to the Native-born! A health to the Native-born (Stand up!), We’re six white men arow, All bound to sing o’ the little things we care about, All bound to fight for the little things we care about With the weight of a six-fold blow! By the might of our cable-tow (Take hands!), From the Orkneys to the Horn, All round the world (and a little loop to pull it by), All round the world (and a little strap to buckle it), A health to the Native-born!THE KING
“Farewell, Romance!” the Cave-men said; “With bone well carved he went away, Flint arms the ignoble arrowhead, And jasper tips the spear to-day. Changed are the Gods of Hunt and Dance, And he with these. Farewell, Romance!” “Farewell, Romance!” the Lake-folk sighed; “We lift the weight of flatling years; The caverns of the mountain-side Hold him who scorns our hutted piers. Lost hills whereby we dare not dwell, Guard ye his rest. Romance, farewell!” “Farewell, Romance!” the Soldier spoke; “By sleight of sword we may not win, But scuffle ‘mid uncleanly smoke Of arquebus and culverin. Honour is lost, and none may tell Who paid good blows. Romance, farewell!” “Farewell, Romance!” the Traders cried; Our keels ha’ lain with every sea; The dull-returning wind and tide Heave up the wharf where we would be; The known and noted breezes swell Our trudging sail. Romance, farewell!” “Good-bye, Romance!” the Skipper said; “He vanished with the coal we burn; Our dial marks full steam ahead, Our speed is timed to half a turn. Sure as the ferried barge we ply ‘Twixt port and port. Romance, good-bye!” “Romance!” the season-tickets mourn, “He never ran to catch his train, But passed with coach and guard and horn — And left the local – late again!” Confound Romance!.. And all unseen Romance brought up the nine-fifteen. His hand was on the lever laid, His oil-can soothed the worrying cranks, His whistle waked the snowbound grade, His fog-horn cut the reeking Banks; By dock and deep and mine and mill The Boy-god reckless laboured still! Robed, crowned and throned, he wove his spell, Where heart-blood beat or hearth-smoke curled, With unconsidered miracle, Hedged in a backward-gazing world; Then taught his chosen bard to say: “Our King was with us – yesterday!”THE RHYME OF THE THREE SEALERS
Away by the lands of the Japanee Where the paper lanterns glow And the crews of all the shipping drink In the house of Blood Street Joe, At twilight, when the landward breeze Brings up the harbour noise, And ebb of Yokohama Bay Swigs chattering through the buoys, In Cisco’s Dewdrop Dining-Rooms They 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. Now this is the Law of the Muscovite, that he proves with shot and steel, When ye come by his isles in the Smoky Sea ye must not take the seal, Where the gray sea goes nakedly between the weed-hung shelves, And the little blue fox he is bred for his skin and the seal they breed for themselves; For when the matkas seek the shore to drop their pups aland, The great man-seal haul out of the sea, a-roaring, band by band; And when the first September gales have slaked their rutting-wrath, The great man-seal haul back to the sea and no man knows their path. Then dark they lie and stark they lie – rookery, dune, and floe, And the Northern Lights come down o’ nights to dance with the houseless snow; And God Who clears the grounding berg and steers the grinding floe, He hears the cry of the little kit-fox and the wind along the snow. But since our women must walk gay and money buys their gear, The sealing-boats they filch that way at hazard year by year. English they be and Japanee that hang on the Brown Bear’s flank, And some be Scot, but the worst of the lot, and the boldest thieves, be Yank! It was the sealer Northern Light, to the Smoky Seas she bore, With a stovepipe stuck from a starboard port and the Russian flag at her fore. (Baltic, Stralsund, and Northern Light — oh! they were birds of a feather — Slipping away to the Smoky Seas, three seal-thieves together!) And at last she came to a sandy cove and the Baltic lay therein, But her men were up with the herding seal to drive and club and skin. There were fifteen hundred skins abeach, cool pelt and proper fur, When the Northern Light drove into the bight and the sea-mist drove with her. The Baltic called her men and weighed – she could not choose but run — For a stovepipe seen through the closing mist, it shows like a four-inch gun. (And loss it is that is sad as death to lose both trip and ship And lie for a rotting contraband on Vladivostock slip.) She turned and dived in the sea-smother as a rabbit dives in the whins, And the Northern Light sent up her boats to steal the stolen skins. They had not brought a load to side or slid their hatches clear, When they were aware of a sloop-of-war, ghost-white and very near. Her flag she showed, and her guns she showed – three of them, black, abeam, And a funnel white with the crusted salt, but never a show of steam. There was no time to man the brakes, they knocked the shackle free, And the Northern Light stood out again, goose-winged to open sea. (For life it is that is worse than death, by force of Russian law To work in the mines of mercury that loose the teeth in your jaw.) They had not run a mile from shore – they heard no shots behind — When the skipper smote his hand on his thigh and threw her up in the wind: “Bluffed – raised out on a bluff,” said he, “for if my name’s Tom Hall, You must set a thief to catch a thief – and a thief has caught us all! By every butt in Oregon and every spar in Maine, The hand that spilled the wind from her sail was the hand of Reuben Paine! He has rigged and trigged her with paint and spar, and, faith, he has faked her well — But I’d know the Stralsund’s deckhouse yet from here to the booms o’ Hell. Oh, once we ha’ met at Baltimore, and twice on Boston pier, But the sickest day for you, Reuben Paine, was the day that you came here — The day that you came here, my lad, to scare us from our seal With your funnel made o’ your painted cloth, and your guns o’ rotten deal! Ring and blow for the Baltic now, and head her back to the bay, And we’ll come into the game again – with a double deck to play!” They rang and blew the sealers’ call – the poaching cry of the sea — And they raised the Baltic out of the mist, and an angry ship was she: And blind they groped through the whirling white and blind to the bay again, Till they heard the creak of the Stralsund’s boom and the clank of her mooring chain. They laid them down by bitt and boat, their pistols in their belts, And: “Will you fight for it, Reuben Paine, or will you share the pelts?” A dog-toothed laugh laughed Reuben Paine, and bared his flenching-knife. “Yea, skin for skin, and all that he hath a man will give for his life; But I’ve six thousand skins below, and Yeddo Port to see, And there’s never a law of God or man runs north of Fifty-Three: So go in peace to the naked seas with empty holds to fill, And I’ll be good to your seal this catch, as many as I shall kill!” Answered the snap of a closing lock and the jar of a gun-butt slid, But the tender fog shut fold on fold to hide the wrong they did. The weeping fog rolled fold on fold the wrath of man to cloak, And the flame-spurts pale ran down the rail as the sealing-rifles spoke. The bullets bit on bend and butt, the splinter slivered free (Little they trust to sparrow-dust that stop the seal in his sea!), The thick smoke hung and would not shift, leaden it lay and blue, But three were down on the Baltic’s deck and two of the Stralsund’s crew. An arm’s-length out and overside the banked fog held them bound, But, as they heard or groan or word, they fired at the sound. For one cried out on the Name of God, and one to have him cease, And the questing volley found them both and bade them hold their peace; And one called out on a heathen joss and one on the Virgin’s Name, And the schooling bullet leaped across and showed them whence they came. And in the waiting silences the rudder whined beneath, And each man drew his watchful breath slow taken ‘tween the teeth — Trigger and ear and eye acock, knit brow and hard-drawn lips — Bracing his feet by chock and cleat for the rolling of the ships. Till they heard the cough of a wounded man that fought in the fog for breath, Till they heard the torment of Reuben Paine that wailed upon his death: “The tides they’ll go through Fundy Race but I’ll go nevermore And see the hogs from ebb-tide mark turn scampering back to shore. No more I’ll see the trawlers drift below the Bass Rock ground, Or watch the tall Fall steamer lights tear blazing up the Sound. Sorrow is me, in a lonely sea and a sinful fight I fall, But if there’s law o’ God or man you’ll swing for it yet, Tom Hall!” Tom Hall stood up by the quarter-rail. “Your words in your teeth,” said he. “There’s never a law of God or man runs north of Fifty-Three. So go in grace with Him to face, and an ill-spent life behind, And I’ll be good to your widows, Rube, as many as I shall find.” A Stralsund man shot blind and large, and a war-lock Finn was he, And he hit Tom Hall with a bursting ball a hand’s-breadth over the knee. Tom Hall caught hold by the topping-lift, and sat him down with an oath, “You’ll wait a little, Rube,” he said, “the Devil has called for both. The Devil is driving both this tide, and the killing-grounds are close, And we’ll go up to the Wrath of God as the holluschickie goes. O men, put back your guns again and lay your rifles by, We’ve fought our fight, and the best are down. Let up and let us die! Quit firing, by the bow there – quit! Call off the Baltic’s crew! You’re sure of Hell as me or Rube – but wait till we get through.” There went no word between the ships, but thick and quick and loud The life-blood drummed on the dripping decks, with the fog-dew from the shroud, The sea-pull drew them side by side, gunnel to gunnel laid, And they felt the sheerstrakes pound and clear, but never a word was said. Then Reuben Paine cried out again before his spirit passed: “Have I followed the sea for thirty years to die in the dark at last? Curse on her work that has nipped me here with a shifty trick unkind — I have gotten my death where I got my bread, but I dare not face it blind. Curse on the fog! Is there never a wind of all the winds I knew To clear the smother from off my chest, and let me look at the blue?” The good fog heard – like a splitten sail, to left and right she tore, And they saw the sun-dogs in the haze and the seal upon the shore. Silver and gray ran spit and bay to meet the steel-backed tide, And pinched and white in the clearing light the crews stared overside. O rainbow-gay the red pools lay that swilled and spilled and spread, And gold, raw gold, the spent shell rolled between the careless dead — The dead that rocked so drunkenwise to weather and to lee, And they saw the work their hands had done as God had bade them see. And a little breeze blew over the rail that made the headsails lift, But no man stood by wheel or sheet, and they let the schooners drift. And the rattle rose in Reuben’s throat and he cast his soul with a cry, And “Gone already?” Tom Hall he said. “Then it’s time for me to die.” 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 sea-fog’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.