And fairy-silver,—that ye bear withal;
Ye are so soft and small,
I weep for joy to find ye here to-day
So near to Heaven, and yet so far away,
In our good ocean-ship, whose bows are wet with spray.
VII.
Ye are the cynosure of many eyes
Bright-blue as English skies,—
The sailors' eyes that scan ye in a row,
As if intent to show