Classic Poem

I.

The feast was over in the cabin below,
And the knight was pacing to and fro
On the quarter deck that was guarded well:
Who thinks to pass that centinel,
Jesu Maria! shield him well!
No living wight but that knight did dare
To print his vent'rous footstep there.

II.

The tables were clear'd, it was idlesse all,
The gun-room lads were fast asleep;
Silent the rabble rout was all,
Silent the breeze and weltering deep.
The sailors, bottle loving race,
Stretch'd half asleep recumbent lay,
And urg'd in dreams the gallant chase,
Of oyster-boats far up the bay.

III.

Full seven hundred valiant tars,
Dofl'd their hats when the knight came by,
All fam'd afar in naval wars,
And feats of modern chivalry.
Six lieutenants stout and bold,
Twelve midshipmen, not quite so old,
Jolly lads of mettle true,
Officer'd this gallant crew.

IV.

All of these were clad in blue,
With belted loins and broad-sword true,
They quitted not their steel so bright,
Neither by day, nor yet by night:
They lay down to rest,
With doublet all brac'd,
Pillow'd on plank, so rough and hard:
They carv'd at the meal
With sword of true steel,
And they drank their small beer out of buckets all tarr'd.

V.

Why do these lads stand ready dight?
Why watch these warriors, arm'd by night?
They watch to hear the night-watch hail
Some enemy's or neutral sail;
To see the beacon glimmering far,
Like Will-o'-wisp or shooting star;
They watch 'gainst suthron force and guile,
Lest Hull, or Decatur, or Jones's powers,
Should threaten their Lordly floating towers,
From New-York, or Boston, or Norfolk the while.

VI.

Sir Knight with anxious cares oppress'd,
As little shar'd of peace or rest,
But pac'd with doubtful step and slow,
Now back and forth, now to and fro.
Care sat upon his wrinkled brow,
As deep revolving when and how
He might chastise the sinful fry,
Who dar'd His MAJESTY defy,
And brac'd in arms, defend their right,
'Gainst such a true and valorous knight.

VII.

And then he call'd his captains strait,
By signal far and near,
Quick in his presence to appear,
And on his Knightship wait.
And then was heard the mournful strain
Of Yo, heave O, and, launch'd amain,
The jolly boats began to ply
Their feathery oars right rapidly:
While as they dip the briny tide,
And o'er its swelling bosom glide,
Who on the waters cast his eye,
Might see them sparkle like the sky,
When myriad stars all gaily bright,
Gem the pale robe of dusky night.

VIII.

What gallant chiefs well known to fame,
To answer thus the signal came?
Sir Beresford, a sturdy limb,
To drink or fight all one to him,
Though sooth to say, 'twas always thought,
In liquor he most bravely fought;
Nor ever so resistless felt
As when beneath his buck-skin belt,
He carried store of claret rare;
Sooth! then he'd fight, as well as swear.
Far fam'd was he for noted feats
'Mongst oyster-boats and neutral fleets,
And never turn'd his back they say,
To any ship that ran away:
From " Emerald Isle, " he swaggering came,
To fill his purse, I ween full fain.

IX.

Sir Cockburn next, a border chief,
Descended from full many a thief,
Who in the days of olden time,
Was wont to think it little crime
In gallant raid at night to ride,
And scour the country far and wide;
Rifle the murder'd shepherd's fold,
Do deeds that make the blood run cold,
And cottage fire with burning hand,
In Durham or in Cumberland.
Full well their great examples stole
Into Sir Cockburn's daring soul:
When in his father's mouldering hall,
Where day-light oft peep'd through the wall,
And bats and rooks and night's lone bird
O'er pilfer'd prey to scream were heard,
His sybil nurse the story told,
Of many a stout moss trooper bold,
Who 'gainst his king and country stood,
Knee-deep in pious christian blood.
Blood of Armstrong and Deloraine,
Skulk'd through the urchin's itching vein,
And well he prov'd the great descent,
For both in him seem'd sweetly blent.
When puling in his nurse's arms,
He stole her amulets aud charms,
Pilfer'd her snuff, at sabbath day
Purloin'd her lov'd prayer-book away,
And early show'd how great he'd be
In feats of modern chivalry.

X.

Oft from his bed he forth did hie,
At ghastly midnight hour,
When witches on their broomsticks ply,
And fairies leave their bower;

And roam at large o'er hill and dale,
And prowl in silence round,
Skulking, like sheeted spectre pale,
O'er holy church-yard mound;

And if perchance he happ'd to find,
A hen roost he might rob,
Or shirt, aye swelling in the wind,
Or any other job;

Merrily, merrily he would hie
To the castle and hide his spoil;
And when was rais'd a hue and cry,
Like holy innocent would smile.

XI.

Such were his childish feats I ween,
And ere he sixteen years had seen
Five times in the stocks he'd been.
At length to be more bravely free,
To rob at large, he went to sea;
For he had heard the valiant feats
Of British tars and British fleets;
That bullies of the subject seas,
Not only rob their enemies,
But claim the right, as Yankies know,
To plunder friend as well as foe.

XII.

Here full three years our hero pass'd,
In phrase marine, before the mast,
Where he was driven from pole to pole,
Blasted his eyes, and d — d his soul,
Chew'd, smok'd, crack'd jokes, and drank his flip,
And learn'd all arts of seamanship;
Until at last he rose to be,
A boisterous captain of the sea.

XIII.

He once had sail'd the world all round,
And could with many a tale astound
Of the far-fam'd Antipodes,
Where people walk'd on hands and knees,
And thus like flies against the wall,
With back turn'd downward us'd to crawl,
And sometimes, through sheer want of care,
Would tumble off — the Lord knows where.
He too had been on Lapland shore,
Where witches keep such mighty store
Of winds compress'd in knot so tight,
Not one of them can take a flight,
Or blow a breath without their leave,
As all good seamen well believe.
Sir Captain bought of these a store,
And out to sea in triumph bore;
Where like Ulysses he would brag,
He had them all tied in a bag.
Whene'er becalm'd on wat'ry waste,
He made one of his knots unfast,
And swore the wind did always blow
The very way he wish'd to go.

XIV.

Castor and Pollux, those dread lights,
At mast head seen in stormy nights,
He had entrapt as we trap rats,
Or boys catch fire-flies in their hats;
Had tam'd them too with wond'rous skill,
And us'd to light his binnacle.
The flying Dutchman, direful sprite!
He chas'd one livelong winter's night,
And drove him ere the break of day,
Full high and dry in Table-bay.
Oft o'er his cups he made his boast,
He'd seen on Norway's ice-bound coast,
A Kraaken of such wondrous size,
He scarcely could believe his eyes.
Full easily the earth 'twould span,
As eel a common frying pan;
So heavily it press'd the ground,
The world could hardly turn around;
This side of earth quite low did seem,
While t'other fairly kick'd the beam;
Whence he deriv'd the long, long nights,
That vex'd those luckless northern wights.
In short, from Sinbad fam'd of old,
Down to the days of Crusoe bold,
There ne'er had liv'd a vent'rous elf,
Who told such stories of himself;
One who had rode so many gales,
Or thrown so many'tubs to whales.

XV.

Bold captain now of ship of war,
He show'd in triumph many a scar;
But whether they at home were got,
In midnight feats of yore,
Or naval fight, yet well I wot,
Some curious marks he bore,
That look'd Gramercy! like the print
Of lashes given with heavy dint
Of cat-o-nine tail, or rope's end;
From whose dread smart me heav'n forefend.

XVI.

Sir John and Sir Cockburn in plundering renown'd,
Sat in the cabin in thought profound,
Waiting to hear Sir Bolus propound.
His hand was press'd by his sun-burnt cheek,
As he por'd o'er the chart of the bay Chesapeake,
While his finger along the surface did pass,
Till it made a full stop at Havre de Grace.
Then might you see his red eye flash;
Then might you hear his white teeth gnash,
As starting up with a ghastly grin,
The stalwart knight did thus begin&mdash

The minstrel paus'd, his faltering hand
No more could age and toil withstand.
The hardships of his lonely way,
And years and grief had stol'n away
The vigour of his youthful prime,
The spirit of his early time;
And now he thought in bitter sooth,
That robb'd of sight and lusty youth,
He might not now, as wont, essay
To please high lords and ladies gay.
Yet still he trembling seem'd to ask,
If they approv'd his minstrel task;
And said, perchance his skill was fled,
For, well-a-day! his sightless head,
Where winter snow and summer heat,
Were wont in ruthless wrath to beat,
Perhaps, lack'd fancy to impart
Sweet pleasure to the hearer's heart;
It was not that 'twas dark midnight,
That the pale moon withheld her light;
Alike to him was time and tide,
No day and night his hours divide;
To him alike or gloom or light,
For him 'twas one long pitchy night:
Whether the wandering sun-beam play'd,
Or moon-light o'er the waters stray'd,
Or darkness veil'd the earth and skies,
The same to his dark sightless eyes;
'Twas night when pleasure was away,
And sunshine when his heart was gay.

The lady now to praise began,
And re-assur'd the lowly man;
Who pleas'd to think they lov'd his lays,
And, like all minstrels, fond of praise,
Amid the strings his fingers laid,
And thus the Second Canto play'd.