Wilton Agnew Barrett

HUNG in the parlors of the town

Are many pictures of tall ships,

White-billowy to their pennon-tips,

And painted black or shining brown.

And, seeing them, the wild thought slips

Back to those wild and white sea-trips

When Round Pond shared the sea’s renown;

And all her captains sailed a fleet,

Long-keeled and deep, around the Horn,

Where Del Fuego lies forlorn

In cloudy rack or scudding sleet.

On other seas of Capricorn

Old voyagers knew their house-flags, borne

Where Indian and Pacific meet.

Strong oils and wool from Boston bar,

Bright silks from busy blue Hong Kong—

And many a little mellow gong

On the shore wind, cleared for Samar

And all the isles of Orient song.

Oh, how the wind-clipt sails would throng!

Great ships—who knows now where they are?

The captains leave their white-walled homes

Built out of earnings from far lands,

But not to take their old commands

Into the wind where water foams!

The captains leave; to helmless hands

Are fallen their houses on these sands;

Their old wives wither in the rooms.

Their children pause, with vision spent—

Dear folk! they dabble, and put away

The majesties of yesterday.

No vital pulse, no strong event,

Sweeps in to break their life’s delay;

The steam-boat lands, leaves them each day

Contented with their discontent.

Where is the blood that loved the sea!

Though old sea-commerce be no more,

Shall children of the sea on shore

Sink dull with careless industry?

Those painted ships bold purpose bore,

And what great glorious sails they wore—

Pictures that shame posterity!