Classic Poem

Eight oars compel
Our darting shell,
Eight oar-blades flash the sun;
The hard arms thrill,
The deep lungs fill,
Eight backs are bent as one.
All silver lined
We leave behind
Each wave of somber hue.
“Stroke! Stroke!
Stroke! Stroke!
Steady, Number Two!”

The sea-gulls go,
A drift of snow,
On Hudson's lights and shades;
The eagle swings
On splendid wings
Above the Palisades.
Let Caution steer
The shore anear,
But Valor takes the tide.
“Stroke! Stroke!
Stroke! Stroke!
Ease your forward slide!”

A fair league still
To old Cock Hill,
Where Spuyten Duyvil roars.
No time for play;
Give 'way; give 'way!
And bend the driven oars!
When breezes blow
Then feather low
With level blades and true.
“Stroke! Stroke!
Stroke! Stroke!
Steady! Pull it thr-o-o-ough!”