10 15 20 So he thinks he shall take to the sea again For one more cruise with his buccaneers, A BALLAD OF THE FRENCH FLEET October, 1746. MR. THOMAS PRINCE, loquitur A fleet with flags arrayed Sailed from the port of Brest, Had sworn by cross and crown Our helpless Boston town. There were rumors in the street, And the danger hovering near; Saying humbly, "Let us pray! O Lord! we would not advise; A tempest should arise, To drive the French fleet hence, And scatter it far and wide, Or sink it in the sea, This was the prayer I made, The answering tempest came. Shaking the windows and walls, And tolling the bell in the tower, As it tolls at funerals. The Lightning suddenly Unsheathed its flaming sword, The sea was white with hail, The fleet it overtook, And the broad sails in the van, 5 Like a potter's vessel broke They vanished and ceased to be, With thine horses through the sea. NATURE 10 As a fond mother, when the day is o'er, Leads by the hand her little child to bed, Half willing, half reluctant to be led, And leave his broken playthings on the floor, Still gazing at them through the open door. 15 Nor wholly reassured and comforted By promises of others in their stead, Which, though more splendid, may not please him more; So Nature deals with us, and takes away 20 Our playthings one by one, and by the hand How far the unknown transcends the what we know. CHAUCER An old man in a lodge within a park; The chamber walls depicted all around With portraitures of huntsman, hawk, and hound, And the hurt deer. He listeneth to the lark, Whose song comes with the sunshine through the dark He listeneth and he laugheth at the sound, I hear the crowing cock, I hear the note Of lark and linnet, and from every page THE REPUBLIC (From The Building of the Ship) Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State! What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel, Fear not each sudden sound and shock, Are all with thee, are all with thee! ULTIMA THULE With favoring winds, o'er sunlit seas, The land where golden apples grow; How far since then the ocean streams Whither, ah, whither? are not these The tempest-haunted Hebrides, Where sea-gulls scream, and breakers roar, Ultima Thule! Utmost Isle! Here in thy harbors for awhile We lower our sails, awhile we rest From the unending endless quest. |