Leagues, leagues south-west of Scilly,
Drove the great Mackerel Fleet; —
They drove from dusk to daybreak,
In spite of sea and sleet.

In spite of storm, and sea, and sleet,
Spite of the blinding hail;
The wind grew to a hurricane
Before they hoisted sail.

Then rose the huge Atlantic waves!
And the great fleet, shore-wards,
Storm-foresailed, flew through scud and drift,
Like flocks of frightened birds.

Some for St. Mary's harbour ran,
Some for St. Michael's bay: —
O desperate was that race for life
That dreadful April day.

Three luggers sailed in company,
Three boats of equal speed;
Sternmost the " Triumph " dashed along;
The " Annie " had the lead.

Meanwhile three cables' lengths between
The good " Three Brothers " kept,
As for St. Mary's sheltered roads
League after league they swept.

Still louder roared the hurricane,
Still fiercer raged the sea;
And one huge billow, topmast high,
Broke o'er the " Brothers Three! "

A minute more the " Triumph " passed
Some nets, a keg, an oar;
Ahead, the " Annie, " and a wild
White waste of foam, — no more!

What grudge hadst thou against the boat?
Thou cruel, greedy Sea!
Seven poor plain families stript of all, —
What gain was that to thee?

For thee, dear friend of noble heart,
To a rough calling bred,
For thee I will not weep, — thou art
With the victorious dead.

Hurled by that mighty mountain wave,
By that fierce tempest driven,
Through the black channel of the grave
Into the blaze of Heaven.

Snatched from the sinking lugger's deck,
Translated from the abyss;
One moment — death, destruction, wreck!
The next — God, glory, bliss!