War-lyrics and other poems

Can ye remember, ye trusty two,
Mates of my boyhood, so tried and true!
That sweet spring morn when we hoisted sail
To catch the breath of the southern gale—
And steered away in our slender bark,
A hundred leagues o'er the ocean dark?

For toil or for peril what cared we?
The flask was full, and the gale blew free.

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When seas were striving hard to o'erwhelm,
Well she minded her cunning helm.
A steady eye on the flaw was cast,
A steady hand held the tiller fast.
The winds might whistle and rave their fill—
The song and the tale were never still.

The porpoise tumbled beneath our bow,
Fin and tail the shark did show,
And the gull and the petrel fluttered nigh,
Through a stormy sea and a stormy sky.
And, but for these, o'er the wide-spread sea,
No living thing save the lonely three.

And when night came down o'er the waters wide,
We were lulled to sleep by the rocking tide.
No bell we sounded—no watch we kept,
But the lantern that lazily swung while we slept.
Though the plank was hard, and the deck came nigh
As the narrow couch where we all shall lie—
Never, I ween, on a downy bed,
With curtains folded, and soft sheets spread,
Could the midnight calm on our eyelids stream
A sounder sleep or a sweeter dream.

But now, all scattered far away,
Each in a distant land, we stray.
Hardly I know if in grief or mirth
Ye are yet on the face of the sunny earth.

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Many a bright spring sun hath shone,
Many a wintry blast hath blown—
But the brave old bark wherein we tost
Has left her bones on a far-off coast—
And, since that dear mad cruise, have we
Over land and over sea
Voyaged far and wearily.

Yet still, when the voice of the East is high,
And the line-storm lowers in a troubled sky,
When the forest moans, till its heavy roar
Sounds like the tide on a wild lee-shore—
My thoughts rove wandering far away
To the breaking surf and the salt sea spray—
A sail's hoarse flap in the wind I hear,
And the roar of waves is loud in mine ear.

Come around me now, companions dear,
Who love old tales by the hearth to hear—
For the night is gusty, and dark, and drear,
And the moon hath told that a storm is near.
Let the blast without raise its angriest shout,
And howl in the chimney with sullen rout—
While I tell, as fairly as tell I may,
A tale of the seas, and of times passed away.

'Twas a wild, rough day, when winds were high,
And the autumn equinox drew nigh,
Years dead and gone some thirty and three,
A gallant ship was sailing the sea.

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'Tis a sight to look on, right fair and brave—
How proudly she rises from wave to wave!
With her courses furled, as she ploughs along,
And a double reef in her topsails strong.
On her hull so black a row ye might mark
Of teeth that can bite as well as bark—
Grinning full grimly on either side,
For 'twas war-time then o'er the ocean wide;
And many a sail, both in channel and main,
Roved o'er the waters for plunder and gain.

On her privateering deck you might view
A long-sided, keen-visaged Yankee crew—
Features of marvellous shape and size,
Beet-like noses and fish-like eyes.
There was Obed the Skipper, and Peleg the mate,
And many a moe that I can't relate.
But all, as they ply the goodly trade,
Believe their eternal fortunes made.
For many a prize they have sent to shore,
And are keeping a sharp look-out for more.

But who is he, of the boyish face?
He looks like one of another race.
With his light-curled hair, and cheek so fair,
Well you had marvelled to find him there.
Yet somewhat in him but half displayed,
Showeth that of which men are made:
A firm-wreathed lip, and an eye of pride
As bright and blue as the seas they ride.

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And why hath he left the pleasant shore,
For the gray salt deep, and its restless roar—
To rove with Obed on venture wild?
That grim old man hath an only child.
To his youthful heart she has long been dear,
Long he has loved her, in hope and fear—
Yet hardly knows why he dares aspire
To win the love of her rude old sire.
Playmates from childhood their simple flame
As yet, not even had found a name.
His voice had failed as he said “good bye,”
And a tear was trembling in Zillah's eye,
When his passionate arms were round her cast,
And he took one kiss—'twas their first and last.
Never again shall those lips be prest,
Or that form be clasped to his loving breast.

And well and boldly full long he strove
To gain the surly old master's love.
None like William aloft could hie,
None like him could the wheel stand by.
Never a man on her deck, in sooth,
But loved the brave and the mirthful youth.

Yet howsoever he dares or tries,
Small grace hath he in the skipper's eyes.
Or if he had, on a luckless day
By an evil wind it was blown away.

A week ago, they had hailed a bark
Steering from India—the stout St. Mark.

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Sooth to say, 'twas a goodly craft,
Laden full deeply fore and aft.
Already in thought the greedy crew
Are hauling her choicest stores to view—
Already are passing from hand to hand
Silks of the East and golden sand,
Teas and spices from China-land!
The boat is lowered—in the stern-sheets
His personage gruff the skipper seats.
William enters too, at his word,
And takes the helm as he steps on board.

'Twas night when they reached the stranger's side,
But the moon shone high in her autumn pride,
And her light came down so cold and keen
The Man in the Moon could be almost seen.

None with Obed mounted on deck
But the boy who followed close at his beck.
With courtesy grim the skippers meet,
Grimly smile as they bow and greet.
Long the parley, as fore and aft
They walk the deck of the captive craft.
Long in the cabin they make their stay,
And when Obed cometh at last away,
(In grave and in courteous wise they parted,)
Nor locker was oped, nor hatch was started.
Nor silk nor spice did the skipper bring,
(He hath not brought us a curséd thing!)
Save one stout chest—'twas a grievous load—
In his private cabin right snugly stowed.

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(When the cruise was o'er, and the good ship lay
Fast by the wharf in her native bay,
Cook and steward long tugged and swore
Or ever they got that chest on shore.)

But what the wonder, and rage, and grief
Of all on board, save their wily chief,
When they saw the stranger loose every sail
And glide away in the moonlight pale.
While their own swift bark, hove to at her ease,
Lay like a log on the rolling seas.

Some tale he told them—it matters not—
A letter of pass, and the Lord knows what!
But from that hour, (it was hardly strange,)
Hath fallen upon them a woful change.
The skipper weareth a threatening mien,
And a blush upon William's cheek is seen,
(For none but William had seen the gold
So slowly and grievously lugged from her hold).
He marks the boy with an evil eye
Fixed all sullenly and sly.
Seldom he cometh on deck, and then
'Tis but to growl, and to haze the men.
And on that day, with a sullen brow,
And a heart of evil, he sat below.

Full sorely he sighed, and slowly took
From his cabin locker the Holye Booke.
And now he is reading that pleasant part
Where David, (a man of the Lord's own heart,)

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Bade that Uriah be left to die,
When the strife by the leaguered wall rose high.

He hath closed the Book—he hath laid it down—
And ta'en from his chest with a fretful frown
A pocket-pistol, loaded and large—
Yet it killeth not at the first discharge.

What ship is that steering up from the south?
She carries a mighty bone in her mouth!
At her peak is a cross of glittering red—
And the pennon streams from her tall mast-head.
Mark how she rolls! for the sea runs high,
'Tis flecked with foam like a mackerel sky.
A scud from the south comes driving fast—
And winds are raving through shroud and mast.

Obed the skipper on deck hath come,
And Ocean snuffeth the scent of rum.
Pepper-and-salt the skipper wore—
Pepper-and-salt behind and before.
Each button was big as a noddy's egg,
And the row thereof did reach to his leg.
It swelleth and tapereth o'er his thigh,
Like the shad ye catch when the stream runs high.

Seven times stalked he the length of her keel—
Seven times hath he turned on his heel.
At the stem and at the stern,
Ever the skipper taketh a turn.

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A big-bellied watch in his fob doth lurk,
He pulleth it out with a vicious jerk!
Six bells are sounded—an hour hath past
Since through the glass he sighted her last.
The night is at hand—but she nears us fast!

Bitter the words he spake, and brief—
‘She gains,” he muttered, “shake out that reef!”

Ear-ring and reef-point loose are cast,
And the topsail flaps on the quivering mast.
As the halliards come home, to his startled men,
“Loose the to'gallant!” he shouts again.

'Tis done—and she flies on the snowy sail,
As a mighty bird spreads her wings to the gale.
The mast yet stands, in the tempest's roar—
But it strains as a stick never strained before!
The crew are staring in doubt and fear,
And they stare yet wider the word to hear,
Another hand must hurry aloft,
And loose yon royal, they've furled so oft.

He looked at his mates—they spoke not a word!
He looked at the crew—not a hand was stirred!
But an active step is heard at his side,
And he meets an eye of daring and pride.
And the devil within him softly said,
With a sneer, “Well, William! are you afraid?”

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No word he uttered—or low or loud—
But sprang at once to the weather shroud.
And o'er the ratlins he climbs amain,
Through a squall that comes like a hurricane.
He has gained the cross-trees—he mounts the yard—
And the loosened canvas is flapping hard.
A hail is heard from his eyrie high!
A crash! she has parted her royal-tie!
Far to leeward amid the storm
Flew the slender spar and the slender form!

Twenty feet to the boat have sprung!
Twenty hands to the braces clung!
Old Tom at the wheel lets her luff a wee,
All ready to hear them sing out “hard-a-lee!”

But a hard rough hand, uplifted apace,
Hits old Tom in his honest face.
And a voice of anger is heard to say
“Keep fast that boat!—keep the ship away!”

And this was all—save a single cry,
That pierced each heart as the hull drove by,
And a fair, pale face for an instant seen,
Ere the giant billow rose high between.
But the last look on one we shall see no more,
Is stamped far deeper than all before.

In her pomp and pride the ship went by,
And left him alone on the sea—to die.

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But if he sank in its soundless bed,
When the first dark surf broke o'er his head,
Or struggled long o'er his ocean-grave,
Weaker and weaker, with wave on wave—
Will ne'er be known till that Day of Dread,
The Day when the seas give up their dead!

Rough Obed follows the seas no more;
He hath built him a shingled house on the shore,
Fairly chambered, and garnished well—
Yet therein he loveth not long to dwell.

He had faced the storm, when its wildest blast
Like chaff was scattering canvas and mast.
On the deck full bold he had stood,
When the scuppers streamed, and the planks ran blood.

But he cannot look on that fading eye,
That is dimmer daily, he well knows why;
And the form that all slowly is wasting away,
And the cheek growing paler, day by day.

Where the sign of the Whale hangs creaking on high,
He drinks like a fish—but he's always dry!
Old Ephraim wonders what's come to pass,
And shakes his head as he fills the glass.
The by-standers whisper and stare to behold
Close Obed pay over the good red gold.
They ring it to catch the golden sound—
Heft it, and turn it, and pass it round.

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Full fairly it weighs, and 'tis red to the gaze
But it looks yet redder to him who pays!
But he eyes the change with a vacant air,
And the empty glass with an empty stare.
Nought he heeds what they look or say,
And he mutters still, as he turns away,
“They lie when they say I followed the sea—
And they lie when they say that a man follows me.”

The frost was hard in the old churchyard
As the heart that hated a famished bard.
Pickaxe and mattock, crow and spade,
A long dark trench in the earth have made—
And a narrow chest beside it is laid:
Brightly polished and quaintly built,
With its many corners, and handles gilt.
But a piteous thing lies pillowed below,
With its pale hands crossed on a breast of snow,
And its frozen tresses—but all are hid
'Neath that never more to be opened lid.
'Twas a cruel dwelling for one so fair,
That cold, dark bed! but they left her there—
Where the shades fall saddest at twilight's close,
And the long weeds wave when the night-wind blows—
Where the weeping willows their lean arms toss,
And the stones are gray with a century's moss.

University of Virginia Library

OBED THE SKIPPER.