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This laboring vast, Tellurian Galleon,
Riding at anchor off the orient sun,
Had broken its cable, and stood out to space.
FRANCIS THOMPSON.
Galleon,
ahoy, ahoy!
Old earth riding off the sun,
And straining at your cable as you ride
On the tide,
Battered laboring and vast,
In the blast
Of the hurricane that blows between the worlds,
Ahoy!
’Morning, shipmates! ’Drift and chartless?
Laded deep and rolling hard?
Never guessed, outworn and heartless,
There was land so close aboard?
Ice on every shroud and eyelet,
Rocking in the windy trough?
No more panic; Man’s your pilot;
Turns the flood, and we are off!
At the story of disaster,
From the continents of sleep,
I am come to be your master
And put out into the deep.
What tide current struck you hither,
Beating up the storm of years?
Where are those who stood to weather
These uncharted gulfs of tears?
Did your fellows all drive under
In the maelstrom of the sun,
While you only, for a wonder,
Rode the wash you could not shun?
We’ll crowd sail across the sea-line,—
Clear this harbor, reef and buoy,
Bowling down an open bee-line
For the latitudes of joy;
Till beyond the zones of sorrow,
Past griefs haven in the night,
Some large simpler world shall morrow
This pale region’s northern light.
Not a fear but all the sea-room,
Wherein time is but a bay,
Yet shall sparkle for our lee-room
In the vast Altrurian day.
And the dauntless seaworn spirit
Shall awake to know there are
What dominions to inherit,
Anchored off another star!
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