And swirling smoke he puffs afar— "Tis sweet to him as desert manna!
Away, away the reek doth go,
In wiry thread or heavy volume;
Now black, now blue, gold, grey, or snow
In colour and in height a column !
His little eyes, deep-set and hedged
All round and round with bristles hoary,
Do twinkle like a hawk's new-fledged—
Sure he hath dreams of marvellous glory!
Well, I would rather be that wight, Contented, puffing, midst his tackling, Than star-gemmed lord or gartered knight, In masquerade or senate cackling.
He suns his limbs upon the deck,
He hears the music of the ocean;
He lives not on another's beck,
He pines not after court promotion.
He is unto himself-he is
A little world within another;
And furthermore he knoweth this,
That all mankind to him is brother.
He sings his songs and smokes his weed,
He spins his yarn of monstrous fables,
He cracks his biscuit, and at need
Can soundly sleep on coiled-up cables.
Although the sea be sometimes rough,
His bark is stout, its rudder steady,
At other whiles 'tis calm enough,
And buxom as a gentle lady.
In sooth, too, 'tis a pleasant thing,
To sail and feel the sea-breeze blowing
About one's cheek-oh! such doth bring
Full many a free-born thought and glowing.
For who upon the deep, deep sea,
Ere dwelt and saw its great breast heaving, But by a kindred sympathy
Felt his own heart its trammels leaving?
The wide and wild, the strange and grand,
Commingle with his inmost spirit;
He feels a riddance from the land-
A boundlessness he may inherit.
Good night, thou happy ancient man!
Farewell, thou mariner so jolly!
I pledge thee in this social can,
Thou antipode of melancholy!
A RHAPSODY MOST PLEASANT AND MERRY.
WHEN night winds rave
O'er the fresh scooped grave,
And the dead therein that lie,
Glare upward to the sky;
When gibbering imps sit down,
To feast on lord or clown,
And tear the shroud away
From their lithe and pallid prey;
Then clustering close, how grim
They munch each withered limb!
Or quarrel for dainty rare,
The lip of lady fair—
The tongue of high-born dame,
That never would defame,
And was of scandal free
As any mute could be!
Or suck the tintless cheek
Of maiden mild and meek;
And when in revel rout
They kick peeled skulls about,
And shout in maddest mirth-
"These dull toys awed the earth!"
Oh then, oh then, oh then,
We hurry forth amain;
For with such eldritch cries,
Begin our revelries!
When the murderer's blanched corse
Swings with a sighing hoarse
From gibbet and from chain,
As the bat sucks out his brain,
And the owlet pecks his eyes,
And the wild fox gnaws his thighs;
While the raven croaks with glee,
Lord of the dead man's tree;
And rock on that green skull,
With sated look and dull,
In gloomy pride looks o'er
The waste and wildered moor,
And dreams some other day
Shall bring him fresher prey;
When over bog and fen,
To lure wayfaring men,
Malicious spirits trail
A ground-fire thin and pale,
Which the belated wight
Pursues the livelong night,
Till in the treacherous ground
An unmade grave is found,—
Oh then, oh then, oh then,
We hurry forth amain,
Ha ha! his feeble cries
Begin our revelries.
When the spirits of the North,
Hurl howling tempests forth ;
When seas of lightning flare,
And thunders choke the air;
When the ocean starts to life,
To madness, horror, strife,
And the goodly bark breaks up,
Like ungirded drinking cup,
And each stately mast is split
In some rude thunder-fit ;
And like feather on the foam,
Float shattered plank and boom;
When, midst the tempest's roar,
Pale listeners on the shore
Hear the curse and shriek of men,
As they sink and rise again
On the gurley billow's back,
And their strong broad breast-bones crack
On the iron-ribbed coast,
As back to hell they're toss'd,
Oh then, oh then, oh then,
We hurry forth again!
For amid such lusty cries,
Begin our revelries.
When aged parents flee
The noble wreck to see,
And mark their sons roll in
Through foam and thundering din,
All mottled black and blue-
Their icy lips cut through
In the agony of death,
While drifting on their path;
When gentle maidens stand
Upon the wreck-rich strand,
And every labouring wave
That doth their small feet lave,
Gives them a ghastly lover
To wring their white hands over,
And tear their spray-wet hair
In the madness of despair ;-
Oh then, oh then, oh then,
We hurry home amain;
For their heart-piercing cries,
Shame our wild revelries!
THE calmness of this moontide hour,
The shadow of this wood,
The fragrance of each wilding flower,
Are marvellously good;
Oh, here crazed spirits breathe the balm
Of nature's solitude!
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