Classic Poem

It was a jolly mariner!
The tallest man of three, —
He loosed his sail against the wind,
And turn'd his boat to sea:
The ink-black sky told every eye,
A storm was soon to be!

But still that jolly mariner
Took in no reef at all,
For, in his pouch, confidingly,
He wore a baby's caul;
A thing, as gossip-nurses know,
That always brings a squall!

His hat was new, or, newly glazed;
Shone brightly in the sun;
His jacket; like a mariner's,
True blue as e'er was spun:
His ample trousers, like Saint Paul,
Bore forty stripes save one.

And now the fretting foaming tide
He steer'd away to cross;
The bounding pinnace play'd a game
Of dreary pitch and toss;
A game that, on the good dry land,
Is apt to bring a loss!

Good Heaven befriend that little boat,
And guide her on her way!
A boat, they say, has canvas wings,
But cannot fly away!
Though, like a merry singing-bird,
She sits upon the spray!

Still south by east the little boat,
With tawny sail, kept beating:
Now out of sight, between two waves,
Now o'er th' horizon fleeting;
Like greedy swine that feed on mast, —
The waves her mast seem'd eating!

The sullen sky grew black above,
The wave as black beneath;
Each roaring billow show'd full soon
A white and foamy wreath;
Like angry dogs that snarl at first,
And then display their teeth.

The boatman look'd against the wind,
The mast began to creak,
The wave, per saltum, came and dried,
In salt upon his cheek!
The pointed wave against him rear'd,
As if it own'd a pique!

Nor rushing wind, nor gushing wave,
The boatman could alarm,
But still he stood away to sea,
And trusted in his charm;
He thought by purchase he was safe,
And arm'd against all harm!

Now thick and fast and far aslant,
The stormy rain came pouring,
He heard, upon the sandy bank,
The distant breakers roaring, —
A groaning intermitting sound,
Like Gog and Magog snoring!

The sea-fowl shriek'd around the mast,
A-head the grampus tumbled,
And far off, from a copper cloud,
The hollow thunder rumbled;
It would have quail'd another heart,
But his was never humbled.

For why? he had that infant's caul;
And wherefore should he dread?
Alas! alas! he little thought,
Before the ebb-tide sped, —
That, like that infant, he should die;
And with a watery head!

The rushing brine flowed in apace;
His boat had ne'er a deck:
Fate seem'd to call him on, and he
Attended to her beck;
And so he went, still trusting on,
Though reckless — to his wreck!

For as he left his helm, to heave
The ballast-bags a-weather,
Three monstrous seas came roaring on,
Like lions leagued together.
The two first waves the little boat
Swam over like a feather, —

The two first waves were past and gone,
And sinking in her wake;
The hugest still came leaping on,
And hissing like a snake.
Now helm a-lee! for through the midst,
The monster he must take!

Ah me! it was a dreary mount!
Its base as black as night,
Its top of pale and livid green,
Its crest of awful white,
Like Neptune with a leprosy, —
And so it rear'd upright!

With quaking sails the little boat
Climb'd up the foaming heap;
With quaking sails it paused awhile,
At balance on the steep;
Then, rushing down the nether slope,
Plunged with a dizzy sweep!

Look, how a horse, made mad with fear,
Disdains his careful guide;
So now the headlong headstrong boat,
Unmanaged, turns aside,
And straight presents her reeling flank
Against the swelling tide!

The gusty wind assaults the sail;
Her ballast lies a-lee!
The sheet 's to windward taut and stiff,
Oh! the Lively — where is she?
Her capsized keel is in the foam,
Her pennon's in the sea!

The wild gull, sailing overhead,
Three times beheld emerge
The head of that bold mariner,
And then she screamed his dirge!
For he had sunk within his grave,
Lapp'd in a shroud of surge!

The ensuing wave, with horrid foam,
Rushed o'er and covered all,
The jolly boatman's drowning scream
Was smother'd by the squall,
Heaven never heard his cry, nor did
The ocean heed his caul .