He forgets the fleet he builded and the decks that once he trod,

That his grave's afar from England and his pall is alien sod,

That the incense-sticks are burning

And the praying-wheels a-turning

To the name of William Adams, Kentish sailorman and god.

So he drowses till the screaming of the sirens once again Calls him back to where beneath him, like mailed barons of the main,

Ride the warships; while the rattle

Of Dai Nippon's seaward battle

Rings and mingles through his dreaming like a distant song's refrain:

For whenas the great grey battleships roll down upon the foe,

Or when Togo's lean torpedo-boats charge shoreward through the snow,

When the giant shells are crashing

And the league-long searchlights flashing,

Then Will Adams sees the triumph of his toil of long ago.

J. H. Knight-Adkin.

The Sea Gipsy

AM fevered with the sunset,
I am fretful with the bay,
For the wander-thirst is on me
And my soul is in Cathay.

There's a schooner in the offing,
With her topsails shot with fire,
And my heart has gone aboard her
For the Islands of Desire.

I must forth again to-morrow!
With the sunset I must be
Hull down on the trail of rapture

In the wonder of the Sea.

Richard Hovey.

The Sands of Dee

MARY, go and call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home,

Across the sands of Dee;"

The western wind was wild and dank with foam,

And all alone went she.

The creeping tide crept up along the sand,
And o'er and o'er the sand,

And round and round the sand,

As far as eye could see.

The rolling mist came down, and hid the land:

And never home came she.

"Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair

A tress of golden hair,

A drowned maiden's hair,

Above the nets at sea?

Was never salmon yet that shone so fair
Among the stakes on Dee."

They rowed her in across the rolling foam,
The cruel crawling foam,

The cruel hungry foam,

To her grave beside the sea:

But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home

Across the sands of Dee.

Charles Kingsley.

Ballad of Pentyre Town

OAM flies white over rocks of black,

Nights are dark when the boats go down; But souls flit back in the wild wind's track, And grey gulls gather in Pentyre Town,

Wild, grey gulls in the narrow street,
Wheeling, wavering, to and fro,
(Dear the echo of banished feet!)
Flocking in as the sun sinks low.

Pale she stands at her open door,
(Dark little streets of a fishing town;)
Shrill, thin voices from sea and shore

Fill the air as the sun goes down.

"Out and alas for my woe!" saith she,

(See how the grey gulls whirl and throng!) "Love! Come back from the weary sea!" (Sore is sorrow and hours are long.)

One comes sailing with outstretched beak,
White throat lifted in wailing cry,

Stoops his wing, to a woman's cheek,
Swift and light, as he wavers by.

Foam flies white over rocks of black,

Nights are dark when the boats go down, But souls flit back in the wild wind's track, And grey gulls gather in Pentyre Town. Still she stands at her open door.

(Flickering sun rays faint and far,) "Woe is heavy and doubt is sore,"

(Sobbing waves on the dull Doom Bar).

"Sleep flees far from mine eyes," saith she, (Skies are wild with the rough wind's breath,) "All for my love's voice calling me,"

(Robbed Love clings at the knees of Death).

Now she strays on the wind-swept strand,
"Fair our wandering days shall be!"
Sets her foot on the wan, wet sand,
(Faint feet falter, but wings flash free).

"Love, I come to your call at last."

(Black boats lean on the low sea-shore.) "Fear and doubting are overpast,"

(Set the tiller, and grasp the oar!)

No boat stirs on the sea's dark breast, (Long clouds writhe on a pallid sky,) Storm-winds wail to the lurid west,

Sad and shrill as a sea-bird's cry.

Foam flies white over rocks of black,

Daylight dies, and a boat goes down; But souls flit back in the wild wind's track, And grey gulls gather in Pentyre Town.

Rosamund Marriott Watson.

P

To My Father

EACE and her huge invasion to these shores
Puts daily home; innumerable sails

Dawn on the far horizon and draw near;
Innumerable loves, uncounted hopes

To our wild coasts, not darkling now, ap

proach:

Not now obscure, since thou and thine are there,
And bright on the lone isle, the foundered reef,
The long, resounding foreland, Pharos stands.

These are thy works, O father, these thy crown;
Whether on high the air be pure, they shine
Along the yellowing sunset, and all night
Among the unnumbered stars of God they shine;
Or whether fogs arise and far and wide
The low sea-level drown-each finds a tongue
And all night long the tolling bell resounds:
So shine, so toll, till night be overpast,
Till the stars vanish, till the sun return,
And in the haven rides the fleet secure.

In the first hour, the seaman in his skiff

Moves through the unmoving bay, to where the town
Its earliest smoke into the air upbreathes
And the rough hazels climb along the beach.
To the tugg'd oar the distant echo speaks.
The ship lies resting, where by reef and roost
Thou and thy lights have led her like a child.

This hast thou done, and I-can I be base?
I must arise, O father, and to port
Some lost, complaining seaman pilot home.

R. L. Stevenson.