Isaac McLellan: Verses about Water

(Pomatomus Saltatrix.)

It is a brave, a royal sport,
Trolling for bluefish o'er the seas;
Fair skies and soaring gulls above,
A steady blowing breeze;
A shapely yacht whose foaming prow
The billowy plain divides,
That like a gallant courser speeds
Far, free o'er ocean tides.

First from West India seas they came,
Haunting the Cuban coast,
Cruel as Spanish buccaneers,
A fierce, rapacious host.
But now by Northern seaboard shores
Their murderous way they take,
From Mexic Gulf to Labrador,
Wherever billows break.
The weaker tenants of the main
Flee from their rage in vain,
The vast menhaden multitudes
They massacre o'er the flood;
With lashing tail, with snapping teeth
They stain the tides with blood.

Rakish are they, like pirate craft,
All matchless to assail,
With graceful, shapely, rounded sides
And the sharp, forked tail;
And when the angler's hook is fixed
They fight, they struggling bleed,
Now leaping high, now plunging deep,
Darting with lightning speed.

And yet these sea marauders,
These tyrants of the main,
By fiercer, mightier ruffians
Are hunted, conquered, slain;
The tumbling porpoise hunts them,
Dorado fierce pursues,
And when the shark assaileth,
Blood-stains the waves suffuse.

In Indian Ocean, or in seas
That dash their billows upon tropic isles,
Where the perennial, soft summer time
Around the shelly beaches smiles,
The myriad tenants of the surges sweep,
Haunting the salty deep.

There the fierce cachalot and shark,
And fiercer yet dorado of the seas,
Gorgeous, enamell'd rich with silver scales,
Unite in ocean voyages.
Dorado, ruthless pirate of the wave,
Wages its war with all the finny race,
Now fleeing from its more gigantic foes,
Now seeking weaker victims in its chase.

And chief the little flying fish its prey
Swimming in glittering schools across the main;
Then swift in race, pursuers and pursued
Cut the blue surface of the water plain.
Dorado, swift as Indian shaft, pursues,
The flying fish with equal swiftness flee,
'Till wearied out by their relentless foe
They leap the waves and flutter o'er the sea,
Skimming the wave, like birds, they speed their way,
Then drop, wing-weary, helpless in the spray;
Dorado still pursues- again, again they rise,
Only to sink at last, a helpless prey.

Still other foes these winged victims meet
When skimming the blue wave in panic fright;
The albatross and tropic-bird pursue,
And with strong talons seize them in their flight.
For them no refuge in the sea remains,
No sure escape when fluttering in the air,
The cruel fish below, the savage bird above,
Prey on their shoals and find delicious fare.
The hunted hare may oft escape its foes,
But the poor flying fish no refuge knows.

New England's dead! New England's dead!
On every hill they lie;
On every field of strife, made red
By bloody victory.
Each valley, where the battle poured
Its red and awful tide,
Beheld the brave New England sword
With slaughter deeply dyed.
Their bones are on the northern hill,
And on the southern plain,
By brook and river, lake and rill,
And by the roaring main.

The land is holy where they fought,
And holy where they fell;
For by their blood that land was bought,
The land they loved so well,
Then glory to that valiant band,
The honored saviours of the land!

O, few and weak their numbers were,--
A handful of brave men;
But to their God they gave their prayer,
And rushed to battle then.
The God of battles heard their cry,
And sent to them the victory.

They left the ploughshare in the mold,
Their flocks and herds without a fold,
The sickle in the unshorn grain,
The corn, half-garnered, on the plain,
And mustered, in their simple dress,
For wrongs to seek a stern redress,
To right those wrongs, come weal, come woe,
To perish, or o'ercome their foe.

And where are ye, O fearless men?
And where are ye to-day?
I call:--the hills reply again
That ye have passed away;
That on old Bunker's lonely height,
In Trenton, and in Monmouth ground,
The grass grows green, the harvest bright
Above each soldier's mound.
The bugle's wild and warlike blast
Shall muster them no more;
An army now might thunder past,
And they heed not its roar.
The starry flag, 'neath which they fought
In many a bloody day,
From their old graves shall rouse them not,
For they have passed away.

Monarch of the realms supernal,
Ranger of the land and sea,
Symbol of the Grand Republic,
Who so noble and so free?
Thine the boundless fields of either,
Heaven's unfathom'd depths are thine;
Far beyond our human vision,
On thy vans the sunbeams shine.

Borne on iron-nerved pinion,
Forth from Pole to Pole you sweep,
O'er sea-islands, craggy mountains,
O'er the blue and trackless deep.
Now thy winnowing plumes o'ershadow
Northern cliff and iceberg grim,
Now o'er Southern, soft savannas,
Thy unflagging pinions skim.

Him who feeds the hungry raven
And the sea-bird of the rock
Tempers the inclement breezes
To the shorn and bleating flock-
Leads thee o'er the waste of ocean,
Guides o'er savage wild and wood,
And from Nature's bounteous storehouse
Feeds thy callow, clamorous brood.

O'er the mountains of Caucasus,
Over Apennine and Alp,
Over Rocky Mounts, Cordilleras,
O'er the Andes' herbless scalp;
Far above their snowy summits,
Where no living thing abides,
He that notes the falling sparrows
Leads thee, watches thee, and guides.

Thou wingest where a tropic sky
Bendeth its celestial dome,
Where sparkling waters greet the eye,
And gentlest breezes fan the foam;
Where spicy breath from groves of palm,
Laden with aromatic balm,
Blows ever, mingled with perfume
Of golden fruit and honey'd bloom.

Green shores adorn'd with tropic wood,
Gay grottoes, island solitudes;
Savannas where palmettoes screen
The Indian's hut with living green;
A land like visionary dreams,
Delicious with its groves and streams-
Realms such as these behold thy sweep,
Careering in the upper deep.

I ofttimes come to this lonely place,
And forget the stir of my restless race;
Forget the woes of human life,
The bitter pang and the constant strife,
The angry word and the cruel taunt,
The sight and the sound of guilt and want,
And the frequent tear by the widow shed,
When her infants ask in vain for bread.
All these I put from my mind aside,
And forget the offence of worldly pride.

It is said that the Spirits of buried men
Oft come to this wicked world again;
That the churchyard turf is often trod
By the unlaid tenants of tomb and sod,
That the midnight sea itself is swept,
By those who have long beneath it slept.
And they say of this old, mossy wood,
Whose hoary trunks have for ages stood,
That every knoll and dim-lit glade
Is haunted at night by its restless Shade.

It is told that an Indian King, whose name
Hath perished long from the scroll of fame,
And whose thousand warriors slumber low,
In equal rest, with the spear and bow,
Was wont to pursue the fallow deer,
And hold his feasts, and make merry here,
And seek his repose in the noontide heat,
By this noisy brook at my very feet-
And here, at the close of his sternest strife,
He finished his rude, and unquiet life.

It is said that on moonlight nights, the gleam
Of his battle Spear flits o'er this stream;
And they say there's a shiver along the grass
Where the restless feet of the Spectre pass,
And a rustle of leaves in the thicket's gloom
When he nods his dusky eagle plume.
And, methinks, I have heard his war-horn bray,
Like the call of waters far away;
And the arrow whistle along the glade
Where the chieftain's giant bones are laid.

And yonder, where those gray willows lave
Their silvery tassels beneath the wave,
By the hollow valley's lonely tide,
You may find the grave of a Suicide.
And 'tis said, at the noon of a dewy night,
When the hills are touch'd with the silver light
That a spirit leans o'er that lonely turf,
Like a snowy wreath of the ocean surf,
And a sound like a passionate mourner's cry,
Will often startle the passer by.

A noble sight is this, I ween,
Fair panorama of the sea,
The ocean white with crested foam
To windward and to lee;
Bright shines the day on Staten Isle,
On woods of emerald green,
On stately dome and villa roof,
With field and lawn between.
Long Island stretches east away,
Engirdled with the brine;
On sandy bar and weedy rock
The glorious sunbeams shine.

Full many a score of stately yachts
Wide o'er the sea are spread,
Careening like white-plumag'd birds,
On rushing pinions sped.
Vast steamers bound for foreign land,
Their smoky banners raise;
The flag of every nation
Its blazon's field displays.
The sound of martial music
From many a deck arise,
Loud shouts of acclamation
Swell grandly to the skies;
From fortress wall and green parade
Ring out the cannonade.

Off Sandy Hook two stately yachts
The broad arena sweep,
While meteor flag and flag of stars
To each tall masthead leap;
Each emulous to win the prize
For speed in ocean race;
To claim the palm of victory
O'er ocean's rolling space.

See how they matchless ride the seas,
Like rush of desert steed,
Graceful as swan on limpid lake,
Swift as the eagle's speed.
A cloud of canvas each displays
From deck to topmast head,
Jib, mainsail, spinnaker,
In ample folds outspread.

Onward, right onward see them fly,
Cleaving the tumbling surge;
A score of miles away the goal
To which the champions urge.
The mark is reach'd, and homeward now
On free wind turns each dashing prow.
So ends the race, the first great race,
Where Puritan holds foremost place;
But nobly in the watery way
Genesta bore her flag that day!

Once more these yachts the challenge fling,
Again on rushing wings they swing;
From Scotland Lightship swift they bear,
Each yacht a pyramid of snow,
The white sails blossoming high in air,
Balloon jibs all aglow!
Yielding to pressure of the breeze,
Thro' the salt ocean sleet they dash,
Plunging thro' maelstrom of green waves,
Through whirling foam they flash,
'Tis battle of the flight and chase,
Pursuer and pursued;
The centreboard, the cutter race,
Fought out o'er ocean flood.
Ah, Puritan hath won the prize!
And cheers exultant rend the skies.

Morn on the Summer Sea- the breaking light
Is trembling on the mountain's misty height,
And upland lea- and on the distant glen-
And o'er the waters- far from haunts of men.

How faint and sweet from yonder secret dell,
Swells o'er the wave the early village bell,
Borne with the sounds of tinkling herds- and hark!
O'er the blue hills, the music of the lark
Rings clearly from the silver clouds that rest,
Like a bright Crown, above the mountain-crest.

O! green and happy land! whose headlands grey,
Are, in the distance, melting fast away;
Ye peaceful vales- the wanderer's own sweet home,
And ye old woods!- farewell.- The curling foam-
The boundless sea, with all its host of waves,
May dash ere evening o'er our lonely graves.

Thou dark, unfathomed Ocean! in thy halls
No searching glance of kindly sunlight falls-
Far through thy azure depths the sea-snakes sweep,
And the huge Krakens haunt thee- stormy deep!
Yet hast thou wealth of glorious things, far down
Thy hidden palaces- jewels and crown,
And the reich spoils of many a shattered bark,
Lie with thy Sea-Stars and the ocean shark;
And from thy many-twinkling sands, bright gems
Shine like the pearls in kingly diadems.
The broad Sea-Fag lies there- and tufts of green,
Oft through thy glassy depths are dimly seen;
And the Sea-Grape and yellow Fan o'erspread
Thy pathless empire- and the Coral's red
Glows mid thy snowy pebbles and rich sand,
And scarlet Shells that glisten o'er the strand.
- Sea! thou art full of life! things swift and strange
Through thy mysterious tides, half shapeless, range.

Noon on the flashing billows. All the day
We have gone lightly on our foaming way;
And the glad sun a tranquil smile hath sent
From his bright throne in yonder firmament.
Far on our lee, the giant Whales upturn
The boisterous water from the sea's full urn;
The storm-drenched Petrel curbs his tired wing,
To view awhile our rapid wandering-
And the blue Halcyon bends his gentle eye
On the strong ship that flies so gaily by-
The purple Mullets through our pathway sweep,
And the blue Dolphins in our white track leap.

O! boundless Sea! with thy upheaving surge,
Whitened with foam-wreaths to thy glorious verge;
With thy strong tides- thy multitude of waves-
And the wild voices of thy thousand caves-
And thy stern rage when tempests madden thee!
Fearful thou ever art, Eternal Sea!