Classic Poem

They christened my brother of old —
And a saintly name he bears —
They gave him his place to hold
At the head of the belfry-stairs,
Where the minster-towers stand
And the breeding kestrels cry.
Would I change with my brother a league inland?
( Shoal! 'Ware shoal! ) Not I!

In the flush of the hot June prime,
O'er sleek flood-tides afire,
hear him hurry the chime
To the bidding of checked Desire;
Till the sweated ringers tire
And the wild bob-majors die.
Could I wait for my turn in the godly choir?
( Shoal! 'Ware shoal! ) Not I!

When the smoking scud is blown —
When the greasy wind-rack lowers —
Apart and at peace and alone,
He counts the changeless hours.
He wars with darkling Powers
(I war with a darkling sea);
Would he stoop to my work in the gusty mirk?
( Shoal! 'Ware shoal! ) Not he!

There was never a priest to pray,
There was never a hand to toll,
When they made me guard of the bay,
And moored me over the shoal.
I rock, I reel, and I roll —
My four great hammers ply —
Could I speak or be still at the Church's will?
( Shoal! 'Ware shoal! ) Not I!

The landward marks have failed,
The fog-bank glides unguessed,
The seaward lights are veiled,
The spent deep feigns her rest:
But my ear is laid to her breast,
I lift to the swell — I cry!
Could I wait in sloth on the Church's oath?
( Shoal! 'Ware shoal! ) Not I!

At the careless end of night
I thrill to the nearing screw;
I turn in the clearing light
And I call to the drowsy crew;
And the mud boils foul and blue
As the blind bow backs away.
Will they give me their thanks if they clear the banks?
( Shoal! 'Ware shoal! ) Not they!

The beach-pools cake and skim,
The bursting spray-heads freeze,
I gather on crown and rim
The grey, grained ice of the seas,
Where, sheathed from bitt to trees,
The plunging colliers lie.
Would I barter my place for the Church's grace?
( Shoal! 'Ware shoal! ) Not I!

Through the blur of the whirling snow,
Or the black of the inky sleet,
The lanterns gather and grow,
And I look for the homeward fleet.
Rattle of block and sheet —
" Ready about — stand by! "
Shall I ask them a fee ere they fetch the quay?
( Shoal! 'Ware shoal! ) Not I!

I dip and I surge and I swing
In the rip of the racing tide,
By the gates of doom I sing,
On the horns of death I ride.
A ship-length overside,
Between the course and the sand,
Fretted and bound I bide
Peril whereof I cry.
Would I change with my brother a league inland?
( Shoal! 'Ware shoal! ) Not I!