Page:The Atlantic Monthly Volume 1.djvu/343

1858.] With the swerving leap of a startled steed

The ship flies fast in the eye of the wind,

The dangerous shoals on the lee recede,

And the headland white we have left behind.

The topsails flutter, the jibs collapse

And belly and tug at the groaning cleats,

The spanker slats, and the mainsail flaps,

And thunders the order,

'Mid the rattle of blocks and the tramp of the crew,

Hisses the rain of the rushing squall;

The sails are aback from clew to clew,

And now is the moment for

And the heavy yards like a baby's toy

By fifty strong arms are swiftly swung;

She holds her way, and I look with joy

For the first white spray o'er the bulwarks flung.

'Tis the last command,

And the head-sails fill to the blast once more;

Astern and to leeward lies the land,

With its breakers white on the shingly shore.

What matters the reef, or the rain, or the squall?

I steady the helm for the open sea;

The first mate clamors,

And the captain's breath once more comes free.

And so off shore let the good ship fly;

Little care I how the gusts may blow,

In my fo'castle-bunk in a jacket dry,—

Eight bells have struck, and my watch is below.