Classic Poem

He is ready to sail, and he gazes with pride
On the bright buttoned jacket, the dirk by his side,
But the trappings of gold do not waken his joy
Like the boat-cloak his mother flings over her boy.
With graceful affection 'tis hung on his arm,
While he marks its full drapery, ample and warm.
" Thou'rt my shipmate, " he cries, " 'twill go hard if we part, "
And the boat-cloak seems linked to the sailor boy's heart.

Years brown his cheek, and far, far on the sea,
Carefully keeping the mid-watch is he.
The chill breeze is defied by his close-clinging vest,
For the weather-tanned boat-cloak encircles his breast.
The rocks are before and the sands are behind,
The wind mocks the thunder, the thunder the wind.
The noble ship founders — he leaps from the deck,
And his boat-cloak is all that he saves from the wreck.

Age comes, and he tells of his perils gone by,
Till the veteran lays him down calmly to die.
And soft is the pillow that bears his gray head,
And warm is the clothing that's heaped on his bed.
But " My boat-cloak! " he cries — " I am turning all cold,
Oh wrap me once more in its cherishing fold. "
'Tis around him, he clasps it, he smiles, and he sighs,
He murmurs, " My boat-cloak, thou'rt warmest! " and dies.