His hat was new, or, newly glazed,
Shone brightly in the sun;
His jacket, like a mariner’s,
True blue as e’er was spun;
His ample trowsers, like Saint Paul,
Bore forty stripes save one.
IV.
And now the fretting foaming tide
He steer’d away to cross;
The bounding pinnace play’d a game
Of dreary pitch and toss;
A game that, on the good dry land,
Is apt to bring a loss!
V.
Good Heaven befriend that little boat,
And guide her on her way!
A boat, they say, has canvas wings,
But cannot fly away!
Though, like a merry singing-bird,
She sits upon the spray!
VI.
Still east by south the little boat,
With tawny sail, kept beating:
Now out of sight, between two waves,
Now o’er th’ horizon fleeting:
Like greedy swine that feed on mast,—
The waves her mast seem’d eating!
VII.
The sullen sky grew black above,
The wave as black beneath;
Each roaring billow show’d full soon
A white and foamy wreath;
Like angry dogs that snarl at first,
And then display their teeth.