THE WEATHER-LEECH of the topsail shivers,
The
bowlines strain, and the lee-shrouds slacken,
The braces
are taut, the lithe boom quivers,
And the waves with the
coming squall-cloud blacken.
Open one point on the
weather-bow,
Is the light-house tall on Fire Island Head.
There 's a shade of doubt on the captain's brow,
And the
pilot watches the heaving lead.
I stand at the wheel,
and with eager eye
To sea and to sky and to shore I gaze,
Till the muttered order of "Full and by!"
Is suddenly
changed for "Full for stays!"
The ship bends lower
before the breeze,
As her broadside fair to the blast she
lays;
And she swifter springs to the rising seas,
As
the pilot calls, "Stand by for stays!"
It is silence
all, as each in his place,
With the gathered coil in his
hardened hands,
By tack and bowline, by sheet and brace,
Waiting the watchword impatient stands.
And the light
on Fire Island Head draws near,
As, trumpet-winged, the
pilot's shout
From his post on the bowsprit's heel I
hear,
With the welcome call of "Ready! About!"
No
time to spare! It is touch and go;
And the captain
growls, "Down helm! hard down!"
As my weight on the
whirling spokes I throw,
While heaven grows black with
the storm-cloud's frown.
High o'er the knight-heads
flies the spray,
As we meet the shock of the plunging
sea;
And my shoulder stiff to the wheel I lay,
As I
answer, "Ay, ay, sir! Ha-a-rd a-lee!"
With the
swerving leap of a startled steed
The ship flies fast in
the eye of the wind,
The dangerous shoals on the lee
recede,
And the headland white we have left behind.
The topsails flutter, the jibs collapse,
And belly
and tug at the groaning cleats;
The spanker slats, and
the mainsail flaps;
And thunders the order, "Tacks and
sheets!"
Mid the rattle of blocks and the tramp of
the crew,
Hisses the rain of the rushing squall:
The
sails are aback from clew to clew,
And now is the moment
for "Mainsail, haul!"
And the heavy yards, like a
baby's toy,
By fifty strong arms are swiftly swung:
She holds her way, and I look with joy
For the first
white spray o'er the bulwarks flung.
"Let go, and
haul!" 'T is the last command,
And the head-sails fill to
the blast once more:
Astern and to leeward lies the land,
With its breakers white on the shingly shore.
What
matters the reef, or the rain, or the squall?
I steady
the helm for the open sea;
The first mate clamors,
"Belay, there, all!"
And the captain's breath once more
comes free.
And so off shore let the good ship fly;
Little care I how the gusts may blow,
In my fo'castle
bunk, in a jacket dry.
Eight bells have struck, and my
watch is below. |
