The Sailor

A sailor ever loves to be in motion,
Roaming about he scarce knows where or why;
He looks upon the dim and shadowy ocean
As home, abhors the land; and e'en the sky,
Boundless and beautiful, has naught to please,
Except some clouds, which promise him a breeze.

He is a child of mere impulse and passion,
Loving his friends, and generous to his foes,
And fickle as the most ephemeral fashion,
Save in the cut and colour of his clothes,
And in a set of phrases which, on land,
The wisest head could never understand.

He thinks his dialect the very best
That ever flow'd from any human lip,
And whether in his prayers, or at a jest,
Uses the terms for managing a ship;
And even in death would order up the helm,
In hope to clear the "undiscover'd realm."

He makes a friend where'er he meets a shore,
One whom he cherishes with some affection;
But leaving port, he thinks of her no more,
Unless it be, perchance, in some reflection
Upon his wicked ways, then, with a sigh,
Resolves on reformation — ere he die.

In calms, he gazes at the sleeping sea,
Or seeks his lines, and sets himself to angling,
Or takes to politics, and, being free
Of facts and full of feeling, falls to wrangling:
Then recollects a distant eye and lip,
And rues the day on which he saw a ship:

Then looks up to the sky to watch each cloud,
As it displays its faint and fleeting form;
Then o'er the calm begins to mutter loud,
And swears he would exchange it for a storm,
Tornado, any thing — to put a close
To this most dead, monotonous repose.

An order given, and he obeys, of course,
Though 'twere to run his ship upon the rocks —
Captuie a squadron with a boat's-crew force —
Or batter down the massive granite blocks
Of some huge fortress with a swivel, pike,
ristol, aught that will throw a ball, or strike.

He never shrinks, whatever may betide;
His weapon may be shiver'd in his hand,
His last companion shot down at his side,
Still he maintains his firm and desperate stand —
Bleeding and battling — with his colours fast
As nail can bind them to his shatter'd mast....

I love the sailor — his eventful life —
His generous spirit — his contempt of danger —
His firmness in the gale, the wreck, and strife;
And though a wild and reckless ocean-ranger,
God grant he make that port, when life is o'er,
Where storms are hush'd, and billows break no more.