THE OCEAN sands are round her keel; | |
| The ocean surge is rolling past; | |
| The sea-bird’s wing will whirl and wheel | |
| In circles round her broken mast; | |
| There is no mortal hand to scare | 5 |
| The crow and sea-gull from her deck; | |
| No spirit, but the sailor’s prayer, | |
| Keeps watch above the noble wreck. | |
| |
| Is she not desolate?—old ship, | |
| Left to the surges’ wild career,— | 10 |
| No more her noble prow to dip | |
| In the wide waters, blue and clear?— | |
| No more to bear the snowy sail | |
| Home from old England’s far-off shores; | |
| No more to breast the northern gale, | 15 |
| With strong men on her oaken floors? | |
| |
| Is there no struggle with the storm? | |
| No struggle, that the noble steed | |
| Heaves when, with life-blood still so warm, | |
| He falls in fight, his last to bleed? | 20 |
| Fights not the old ship wind and tide, | |
| As in old days, when tempests came | |
| And the rough waves that swept her side | |
| Shook not her iron strength of frame? | |
| |
| So fights she not? Ah, gallantly! | 25 |
| And slow each plank is rent away | |
| As if each atom scorned to be | |
| The first-won trophy of decay. | |
| The sea-bird on her broken mast, | |
| The frayed rope swinging from her prow, | 30 |
| She waits her doom of wave and blast, | |
| Content to perish, ne’er to bow! | |
| |
