And I see yon boat so slowly swinging: I hear the far-off home-bells ringing, Ringing through my heart! Sweet bells of home, I must be free: Yon skiff shall bear me o’er the sea, If but these stanchions part!
Then will I dare the tempest’s wrath, While seeking out the homeward path, For liberty’s dear sake; And my frail bark shall boldly drift, Where mightier ships have passed, and left Lines of snow-foam in their wake.
Ha! the iron bars are loosening! So! gently on the floor! I am mad for yon shifting sea, Frantic I’ll spring to liberty! Now! there goes one bar more!
Another! And now I’m free! I’m free! Wide is my path to liberty; For a sailor’s foot and hand Make light of castle-wall, In its rugged fall To the golden strand.
Down! down! down! Beneath the castle’s frown! Surely, I fell! For blood is flowing, and wounds are wide: I know it, I know it, ’tis life’s full tide, In crimson swell! The boat is empty, I lie on the sand, Far from those bells of my own dear land! I am dying, alone, but free! Out in God’s glorious sun and light, Loyal in heart, and true in hand, To the royal flag of my native land! Dying, but free, By the solemn sea! Mother, good-night!
THE OLD CANTEEN.
Send it up to the garret? Well, no, what’s the harm, If it hangs like a horseshoe to serve as a charm? Had its day? to be sure. Matches ill with things here! Shall I sack the old friend just because it is queer? Thing of beauty ’tis not; but a joy none the less, As my hot lips remember its old-time caress, And I think on the solace once gurgling between My lips from that old battered tin canteen.
It has hung by my side in the long, weary tramp; Been my friend in the bivouac, barracks, and camp, In the triumph, the capture, advance, and retreat, More than light to my path, more than guide to my feet. Sweeter nectar ne’er flowed, howe’er sparkling and cold, From out chalice of silver or goblet of gold, For a king or emperor, princess or queen, Than to me, from the mouth of that old canteen.
It has cheered the desponding on many a night, Till their laughing eyes gleamed in the camp’s fire-light; Whether guns stood at silence, or boomed at short range, It was always on duty, though ’twould not be strange If in somnolent periods, just after “taps,” Some colonel or captain disturbed at his naps May have felt a suspicion—that spirits unseen Had somehow bedeviled that old canteen.