The miser will hold his darling gold
Till his eyes are glaz'd and his hands are cold ;
The minstrel one to his wild lyre clings,
As though its chorda were his own-heart-stiings...
No dearer boon will the reveller ask
Then the draught that deepens the purple flask.
But the firmest love-link that can be
Chains the mariners bold to the pathless sea.
Choose ye who will earth's dazzling bowers,
But the great and glorious sea be ours ;
Give us, give us the dolphin's home,
Wilh the speeding keel and splashing foam.
Hight merry are we as the sound bark springs
On her lonely track like a creature of wings.
Oh ! the mariner's life is blythe and gay
When the sky is fair, and the ship on her way.
We love the perilous sea because
It will not bend to man or his laws ;
It ever hath roll'd the uncontroll'd,
It ennnot he warped to fashion or mould ;
Now quiet and fair as a sleeping child,
Now routing in tempests madly wild ;
And who shall wean the mighty flood
From its placid dream or passionate mood ?
We are not so apt to forget our God
As those who dwell on the dry safe sod ;
For we know each leaping wave we meet
May be a crystal winding sheet--
We know each blustering gale that blows
May requiem to a last repose ;
And the chafing tide us it roars and swells
Hath as solemn a tone as the calling bells.
The land has its beauty, its sapphire and rose,
But look on the colours the bright main shows ;
While each billow flings from its pearly fringe
The lucid jewels of rainbow tinge.
Go, mark the waters at sunny noon,
Go float beneath the full clear moon ;
And cold is the spirit that wakes not there
With wondering praise and worshipping prayer.
'Tis true we may sink mid deluge and blast,
But we cope with the strong, we are quell'd by the vast,
And a noble urn is the foundered wreck,
Though no incense may burn, and no flower may deck :
We need no stately funeral car,
But tangled with salt weeds and lashed to a spar,
Down, down below the mariners go,
While thunders volley and hurricanes blow.
But little do we bold mariners care.
What hour we fall, or what risk we dare,
For the groan on the struggling sailor's lip
ls less for himself than his dying ship.
Oh ! ours is the life for the free and the brave,
'Neath the measureless sky on the fathomless wave ;
For we laugh in our home of peril and foam,
And are ready for death whene'er he may come
ELIZA COOK
Notes
From the Sydney Newspaper The Australian 17 Nov 1839 p. 4.
Eliza Cook was an English author, Chartist poet and writer born in London Road, Southwark
Top