Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1918.djvu/1049

 ROBERT BRIDGES

843 A Passer-by

\ T THITHER, O splendid ship, thy white sails crowding, W Leaning across the bosom of the urgent West, That fcarest nor sea rising, nor sky clouding,

Whither away, fair rover, and what thy quest ?

Ah' soon, when Winter has all our vales opprest, When skies aie cold and misty, and hail is hurling,

Wilt thou glide on the blue Pacific, or rest In a summer haven asleep, thy white sails furling.

��I there before thee, in the country that well thou knowest, Already arrived am inhaling the odorous air.

I watch thcc enter unerringly where thou goest, And anchor queen of the strange shipping there, Thy sails for awnings spread, thy masts bare:

Nor is aught from the foaming reef to the snow-capp'd

grandest Peak, that is over the feathery palms, more fair

Than thou, so upright, so stately and still thou standest.

��And yet, O splendid ship, unhail'd and nameless,

I know not if, aiming a fancy, I rightly divine That thou hast a purpose joyful, a courage blameless,

Thy port assured in a happier land than mine.

But for all I have given thee, beauty enough is thine, As thou, aslant with trim tackle and shrouding,

From the proud nostril curve of a prow's line In the offing scatterest foam, thy white sails crowding.

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