 | The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith |  |
A CALM
Yesterday the wind blew high,
Tore the Minch in tatters small,
Drove us back to dripping Skye
Wrapped up in a black cloud-pall:
And we saw upon the strand,
Broken boat and shattered oar,
Women wailing on the land,
Terror stalking on the shore.
Then the fickle waters, spent,
Stretched them out and lay supine—
Samson resting now, content
To have wrecked the Philistine.
Tore the Minch in tatters small,
Drove us back to dripping Skye
Wrapped up in a black cloud-pall:
And we saw upon the strand,
Broken boat and shattered oar,
Women wailing on the land,
Terror stalking on the shore.
559
Stretched them out and lay supine—
Samson resting now, content
To have wrecked the Philistine.
Rocking now in summer calm,
Making not an inch of way,
While the air is soft as balm,
And the hills in loch and bay
Wrap them in a purple haze
Whereon the lingering sun doth lean,
And the clouds are all ablaze,
And the waters catch their sheen,
Every rag of canvas spread,
With flapping sail and creaking boom,
Pennon at the tall mast-head
Drooping like a draggled plume,
We have rolled here to and fro
All the long, hot August day,
Till the westering sun is low,
Making not an inch of way.
Making not an inch of way,
While the air is soft as balm,
And the hills in loch and bay
Wrap them in a purple haze
Whereon the lingering sun doth lean,
And the clouds are all ablaze,
And the waters catch their sheen,
Every rag of canvas spread,
With flapping sail and creaking boom,
Pennon at the tall mast-head
Drooping like a draggled plume,
We have rolled here to and fro
All the long, hot August day,
Till the westering sun is low,
Making not an inch of way.
Beyond the shadow of the ship
Keen-eyed screaming seagulls come,
Touch the sea with light wing-tip,
And skim away the floating crumb:
Guillemots are calling low
To their chicks that wander far,
And rising, flap their wings to show
The two bold swimmers where they are;
Hungry cormorants hurry by,
Snorts the porpoise here and there,
And not a ripple can we spy
Stirring to the moving air.
Blue the cloudless sky o'erhead,
Blue the waveless sea below,
Only the tide, low-pulsing, made
A lazy rocking to and fro.
Keen-eyed screaming seagulls come,
Touch the sea with light wing-tip,
And skim away the floating crumb:
Guillemots are calling low
To their chicks that wander far,
And rising, flap their wings to show
The two bold swimmers where they are;
Hungry cormorants hurry by,
Snorts the porpoise here and there,
And not a ripple can we spy
Stirring to the moving air.
Blue the cloudless sky o'erhead,
Blue the waveless sea below,
Only the tide, low-pulsing, made
A lazy rocking to and fro.
So basking in the purple light,
One said, “Lo! this is heaven, indeed;
Yesterday we had the fight,
Now we get the rest we need.
Happy creatures round us be,
Joy is in our hearts and love,
Peace is on the earth and sea,
Glory in the heaven above.”
One said, “Lo! this is heaven, indeed;
Yesterday we had the fight,
Now we get the rest we need.
Happy creatures round us be,
Joy is in our hearts and love,
Peace is on the earth and sea,
Glory in the heaven above.”
Gruffly then our skipper: “Stuff!
This may be a heaven to you;
As for me I've had enough
Of those oily waters blue.
Here have we been all the day
Listening to that creaking spar,
While the seagulls fly away,
And the dab-chicks wander far.
Let me have a good stiff breeze,
Hear a rushing at the prow,
Now and then be shipping seas,
Lurching in the hollow now:
Anything—a wind ahead,
Racking cloud and driving rain—
Sooner than these waters dead,
And watching for a breeze in vain.
Heaven! there's only one thing worse
Than to lie here like a log;
That is not to know your course,
Sounding in a dismal fog.
Vain to keep the helm aport,
Vain to spread the topsail high;
Better like a porpoise snort,
Better be a gull and fly,
Better to have flat, webbed feet,
Bad to walk, but good to swim,
Than be drifting in the heat,
Till the gloaming light is dim.
This may be a heaven to you;
As for me I've had enough
Of those oily waters blue.
Here have we been all the day
Listening to that creaking spar,
While the seagulls fly away,
And the dab-chicks wander far.
Let me have a good stiff breeze,
Hear a rushing at the prow,
Now and then be shipping seas,
Lurching in the hollow now:
Anything—a wind ahead,
Racking cloud and driving rain—
Sooner than these waters dead,
And watching for a breeze in vain.
Heaven! there's only one thing worse
Than to lie here like a log;
That is not to know your course,
Sounding in a dismal fog.
Vain to keep the helm aport,
Vain to spread the topsail high;
Better like a porpoise snort,
Better be a gull and fly,
Better to have flat, webbed feet,
Bad to walk, but good to swim,
Than be drifting in the heat,
Till the gloaming light is dim.
He who made the worlds, they say,
When His busy work was done,
Rested on the Sabbath day,
Till its listless hours were run.
I've been in the East, and know
That is still the bliss they crave,
Just to lie, and let the slow
Hours go dreaming to the grave.
Well; if that was all the heaven
The devil had to be happy in,
I do not wonder much that even
By way of change he took to sin.—
There's that creaking boom again!
How the lazy shadows float!
'Tis enough to turn one's brain
To hear that croaking guillemot!
When His busy work was done,
Rested on the Sabbath day,
Till its listless hours were run.
I've been in the East, and know
That is still the bliss they crave,
Just to lie, and let the slow
Hours go dreaming to the grave.
Well; if that was all the heaven
The devil had to be happy in,
I do not wonder much that even
By way of change he took to sin.—
560
How the lazy shadows float!
'Tis enough to turn one's brain
To hear that croaking guillemot!
| The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith | |