They see a hand we may not see,
Which beckons them away.”
Monday, March 2. We fidded our top-gallant-masts; crossed our royal yards; rousted up and mounted the eight spar-deck guns, which had been struck below off the Cape; unbent our heavy topsails and courses, and bent lighter ones; holystoned our decks; scrubbed our paint-work; cleaned our brass rails; finished our new side-ladder; and repaired the whaleboat stove in the gale. A good day’s work all this, and a wide stride in our preparations for port. Our band in the mean time is practising some brilliant airs, with which we expect to captivate the Chilanos. But of all the music that ever melted on mortal ear, give me
The lay of streamlets, and the trill of birds,
The lisp of children, and their earliest words.
The cœlebs may turn away from these earliest words, for they have a music which he understands not. There is not a string in his soul which they can touch—not a chord to vibrate as their pulses play over it. But should he wed, and a sweet miniature of life reflect his own features, lisp with his voice, and smile with his eyes, he would hang over it as the Peri over the long-sought secret that was to admit her to celestial bliss. Its faintest note would breathe a sweeter strain than ever trembled from the strings of the Orphean lyre. The earth might be full of loudest harmonies, but he would still turn his ear to that slender note of piping infancy. But let that pass.
Tuesday, March 3. Our studding-sails, which have lain undisturbed for several weeks, have been out to-day, below and aloft, to a light breeze from the south. The sea has been smooth, presenting only its long, majestic undulations. The ocean never rests. From the day morn first broke over its silent depths, it has been rolling on to the present hour. Capitals have crumbled on its shores, thrones and dynasties perished, but it still rolls on in the majesty of its unabated strength.
Our preparations for port are still going on. Our standing rigging has been tarred; our masts, yards, booms, and hull have received a fresh coat of paint. Our guns are beginning to throw back the sun-light from their polished surface. You would hardly suspect such volleyed thunder could sleep in their recesses. Our cutlasses have been furbished, our boarding-pikes sharpened, and our carbines made true to their trust. We bear the olive-branch and the sword.
Our albatrosses have left us. They followed us to the verge of the summer’s clime, and then, wheeling on their bold, arching wings, sped back to their wintry domain. They were our only companions off the Cape, and something like a sentiment of bereavement fell on us, as they took their departure.
The heart will doubly feel alone,