Verses 1889-1896

THE DERELICT

  And reports the derelict Mary Pollock still at sea.
                                     SHIPPING NEWS.

          I was the staunchest of our fleet
          Till the sea rose beneath our feet
       Unheralded, in hatred past all measure.
          Into his pits he stamped my crew,
          Buffeted, blinded, bound and threw,
       Bidding me eyeless wait upon his pleasure.

     Man made me, and my will
     Is to my maker still,
  Whom now the currents con, the rollers steer —
     Lifting forlorn to spy
     Trailed smoke along the sky,
  Falling afraid lest any keel come near!

     Wrenched as the lips of thirst,
     Wried, dried, and split and burst,
  Bone-bleached my decks, wind-scoured to the graining;
     And jarred at every roll
     The gear that was my soul
  Answers the anguish of my beams' complaining.

     For life that crammed me full,
     Gangs of the prying gull
  That shriek and scrabble on the riven hatches!
     For roar that dumbed the gale,
     My hawse-pipes guttering wail,
  Sobbing my heart out through the uncounted watches!

     Blind in the hot blue ring
     Through all my points I swing —
  Swing and return to shift the sun anew.
     Blind in my well-known sky
     I hear the stars go by,
  Mocking the prow that cannot hold one true!

     White on my wasted path
     Wave after wave in wrath
  Frets 'gainst his fellow, warring where to send me.
     Flung forward, heaved aside,
     Witless and dazed I bide
  The mercy of the comber that shall end me.

     North where the bergs careen,
     The spray of seas unseen
  Smokes round my head and freezes in the falling;
     South where the corals breed,
     The footless, floating weed
  Folds me and fouls me, strake on strake upcrawling.

     I that was clean to run
     My race against the sun —
  Strength on the deep, am bawd to all disaster —
     Whipped forth by night to meet
     My sister's careless feet,
  And with a kiss betray her to my master!

     Man made me, and my will
     Is to my maker still —
  To him and his, our peoples at their pier:
     Lifting in hope to spy
     Trailed smoke along the sky,
  Falling afraid lest any keel come near!