“The white-haired skipper turned away, And lifted his hands, as it were to pray; But his look spoke plainly as look could say, The boastful thought of the Pharisee,— ‘Thank God, I’m not hardened as others be!’
“But the morning dawned, and the waves sank low, And the winds, o’erwearied, forebore to blow: And our bark lay there in the golden glow.— Flashing she lay in the bright sunshine, An ice-sheathed hulk on the cold, still brine.
“Well, shipmates, my yarn is almost spun— The cold and the tempest their work had done, And I was the last, lone, living one, Clinging, benumbed, to that wave-girt wreck, While the dead around me bestrewed the deck.
“Yea, the dead were round me everywhere! The skipper gray, in the sunlight there, Still lifted his paralyzed hands in prayer; And the mate, whose tones through the darkness leapt, In the silent hush of the morning slept.
“Oh, bravely he perished who sought to save Our storm-tossed bark from the pitiless wave, And her crew from a yawning and fathomless grave, Crying, Messmates, cheer!’ with a bright, glad smile, And praying, ‘Be merciful, God!’ the while.
“True to his trust, to his last chill gasp, The helm lay clutched in his stiff, cold grasp: You might scarcely in death undo the clasp; And his crisp, brown locks were dank and thin, And the icicles hung from his bearded chin.
“My timbers have weathered, since, many a gale; And when life’s tempests this hulk assail, And the binnacle-lamp in my breast burns pale, ‘Cheer, messmates, cheer!’ to my heart I say, ‘We must labor, in sooth, as well as pray.’”
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