 | The poems of Edmund Clarence Stedman |  |
70° NORTH
(TO H. M. A.)
What's this! your tall ship sighted at the Line?
Some three degrees I'd fain sail back to meet you,—
But orders hold, so let me flash this sign
Astern, and greet you.
Some three degrees I'd fain sail back to meet you,—
But orders hold, so let me flash this sign
Astern, and greet you.
You, who so oft have hailed me, ship to ship,—
A cheery consort in our “roaring forties”;
Prithee, to whom shall not my ensigns dip,
If he your sort is?
A cheery consort in our “roaring forties”;
Prithee, to whom shall not my ensigns dip,
If he your sort is?
Long on your desk (long in that “Study” chair—
To change the metaphor), dear Alden, still be!
The sturdiest master that was ever there,
Or ever will be.
To change the metaphor), dear Alden, still be!
The sturdiest master that was ever there,
Or ever will be.
221
I mind me how those songs which bore my name
Found grace with you—those cantilenae parvae—
Yes, even my Viking (ere his namesake came,
And bounteous Harvey).
Found grace with you—those cantilenae parvae—
Yes, even my Viking (ere his namesake came,
And bounteous Harvey).
“H. M.,” Her Majesty's? No, though in sooth
Victorian decades somewhat overlay us,
I read, with that braw accent of our youth,
Henricus Meus.
Victorian decades somewhat overlay us,
I read, with that braw accent of our youth,
Henricus Meus.
For am I not of them who, down the years
Now closed in Life's inexorable journal,
Have known your hand's strong grip that time endears,
Your words fraternal?
Now closed in Life's inexorable journal,
Have known your hand's strong grip that time endears,
Your words fraternal?
Yet knew you best, and last, from golden books,
The rare quintessence of your mystic spirit,—
When that through mortal eyes no longer looks
May mine be near it!
The rare quintessence of your mystic spirit,—
When that through mortal eyes no longer looks
May mine be near it!
November 10, 1906.
| The poems of Edmund Clarence Stedman | |