THE VOYAGE.
WE hired a ship: we heaved a shout:
We turned her head towards the sea;
We laugh'd and scull'd, and baled her out,
We scream'd and whistled loud for glee:
We scull'd, we scream'd, we laugh'd, we sang,
Beneath the merry stars of June:
Went flute tu-tu, and banjo bang:
We meant to sail into the moon!
Far off a boatman hail'd us high:
"My boat is named the Bonny Bess;
Old Jack will charge you more than I,
For I will charge you sixpence less:
My boat is strong, and swift, and taut,
But Jack's—she is not worth a cuss."
We held his terms in scorn, for what
Was sixpence or a crown to us?
We bang'd; we baled; we scull'd; we scream'd;
The water gain'd upon us fast.
We looked upon the moon: she seem'd
As far as when we saw her last.
We look'd: no terror did we show;
We did not care a button, we;
We knew the good ship could not go
Beyond the bottom of the sea.
But one—at best he was a lout—
The same, we guess, was short of chink—
Exclaim'd in terror, "Let me out,
I am quite sure the ship will sink.
The leak is quickly gaining height;
'Twill soon be half-way up the mast."
And through the hatch that starry night
We let him out, and on we pass'd.
Slight skiffs aslant the starboard slipt,
And jet-black coal-boats, stoled in state,
And slender shallops, silvern tipp'd,
And other craft both small and great.
But we nor changed to skiff or barge,
Or slender shallops, silvern-peak'd;
We knew no vessel, small or large,
Was built by mortal hands, but leak'd.
Beyond the blank horizon burn'd;
The moon had slid below the main;
About the bows we sharply turn'd,
And scull'd the good ship home again.
Before us gleam'd the hazy dawn;
We scull'd, but ere we shockt the lea,
And paid old Jack, the ship had gone
Down to the bottom of the sea.
Above the wreck the sad sea breaks,
And many a pitying moonlight streams;
And o'er the yeasty water flakes
The snow-white sea-gull, sliding screams.
If any goods be wash'd ashore,
Or cash—if any cash be found—
To us, and not to Jack, restore:
But then—you cannot; we were drowned.
S. K. C.
Kottabos (William McGee), Dublin, 1875.
"BREAK, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, O sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me."
* * * *
TENNYSON.
It seems hard to believe that the weather was even hotter in New York during last June than it was in London during certain days of July and August. An American poet thus records his impressions:—
HOT, hot, hot,
Is the blistering breath of June,
And I would that my throat could utter
An anti-torridness tune.
O well for the Esquimau
That he sits on a cake of ice!
O well for the Polar bear
That he looks so cool and nice!
But the scorching heats pours down
And blisters both head and feet!
And O for a touch of vanished frost,
Or the sound of some hail and sleet!