Page:The Atlantic Monthly Volume 1.djvu/342

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weather leech of the topsail shivers,

The bowlines strain and the lee shrouds slacken,

The braces are taut, the lithe boom quivers,

And the waves with the coming squall-cloud blacken.

Open one point on the weather bow

Is the light-house tall on Fire Island head;

There's a shade of doubt on the captain's brow,

And the pilot watches the heaving lead.

I stand at the wheel and with eager eye

To sea and to sky and to shore I gaze,

Till the muttered order of

Is suddenly changed to

The ship bends lower before the breeze,

As her broadside fair to the blast she lays;

And she swifter springs to the rising seas,

As the pilot calls,

It is silence all, as each in his place,

With the gathered coils in his hardened hands,

By tack and bowline, by sheet and brace,

Waiting the watchword impatient stands.

And the light on Fire Island head draws near,

As, trumpet-winged, the pilot's shout

From his post on the bowsprit's heel I hear,

With the welcome call of

No time to spare! It is touch and go,

And the captain growls,

As my weight on the whirling spokes I throw,

While heaven grows black with the storm-cloud's frown.

High o'er the knight-heads flies the spray,

As we meet the shock of the plunging sea;

And my shoulder stiff to the wheel I lay,

As I answer,