 | Poetry for seamen |  |
8
THE WHALER'S SONG.
There she lies!—There she lies!
Like a mountain-isle on Ocean's breast.
“Where away?” Just three points west,
Where the white surge meets the skies.
Head the vessel! Trim the sail!
Let us see this mighty whale.
Like a mountain-isle on Ocean's breast.
“Where away?” Just three points west,
Where the white surge meets the skies.
Head the vessel! Trim the sail!
Let us see this mighty whale.
There she blows!—There she blows!
Man the boats! for nothing stay!
Such a prize we cannot lose,
Stretch to your oars! away! away!
Grapple closer, careful steer,
Launch the harpoon, laugh at fear,
Plunge it deep, the barbed spear,
Strike the lance, in swift career,
Give her line! Give her line!
Down she goes, through the foaming brine,
Sponge the side, where the flying coil
Marks the monster's speed and toil;
But though she dives to the deepest ground,
Which the plummet fails to sound,
'Tis all in vain! All in vain!
She hath that within her side,
Will surely bring her up again.
Man the boats! for nothing stay!
Such a prize we cannot lose,
Stretch to your oars! away! away!
9
Launch the harpoon, laugh at fear,
Plunge it deep, the barbed spear,
Strike the lance, in swift career,
Give her line! Give her line!
Down she goes, through the foaming brine,
Sponge the side, where the flying coil
Marks the monster's speed and toil;
But though she dives to the deepest ground,
Which the plummet fails to sound,
'Tis all in vain! All in vain!
She hath that within her side,
Will surely bring her up again.
Spout! Spout! Spout!
The waves are maddening all about,
Every billow on its head
Strangely wears a crest of red;
How she lashes the seething main,
In her flurry and her pain;
Take good heed, my hearts of oak,
Of her terrible flukes, as she tortured lies,
Lest they hurl us to the skies:
But lo! the pride of her strength is broke,
Heavy she lies, as a mass of lead,
The mighty-monarch whale is dead!
The waves are maddening all about,
Every billow on its head
Strangely wears a crest of red;
How she lashes the seething main,
In her flurry and her pain;
10
Of her terrible flukes, as she tortured lies,
Lest they hurl us to the skies:
But lo! the pride of her strength is broke,
Heavy she lies, as a mass of lead,
The mighty-monarch whale is dead!
Row! Row! Row!
In our ship she must go,
Changed by fire to a liquid stream,
Over the broad Pacific's swell,
Round Cape Horn, where the tempests dwell,
Many a night and many a day,
Home with us, she must sail away,
Till we joyful hail once more,
Old Nantucket's treeless shore;
There when the fair whom we love to please,
Sit by the fireside at their ease,
Let them remember, if they will,
The hardy tar, who on seas afar
Risked his life their lamp to fill.
In our ship she must go,
Changed by fire to a liquid stream,
Over the broad Pacific's swell,
Round Cape Horn, where the tempests dwell,
Many a night and many a day,
Home with us, she must sail away,
Till we joyful hail once more,
Old Nantucket's treeless shore;
There when the fair whom we love to please,
Sit by the fireside at their ease,
Let them remember, if they will,
The hardy tar, who on seas afar
Risked his life their lamp to fill.
| Poetry for seamen | |