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| I CANNOT tell their wonder nor make known |
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| Magic that once thrilled through me to the bone; |
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| But all men praise some beauty, tell some tale, |
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| Vent a high mood which makes the rest seem pale, |
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| Pour their heart’s blood to flourish one green leaf, |
5 |
| Follow some Helen for her gift of grief, |
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| And fail in what they mean, whate’er they do: |
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| You should have seen, man cannot tell to you |
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| The beauty of the ships of that my city. |
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| That beauty now is spoiled by the sea’s pity; |
10 |
| For one may haunt the pier a score of times, |
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| Hearing St. Nicholas bells ring out the chimes, |
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| Yet never see those proud ones swaying home |
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| With mainyards backed and bows a cream of foam, |
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| Those bows so lovely-curving, cut so fine, |
15 |
| Those coulters of the many-bubbled brine, |
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| As once, long since, when all the docks were filled |
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| With that sea-beauty man has ceased to build. |
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| Yet, though their splendor may have ceased to be |
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| Each played her sovereign part in making me; |
20 |
| Now I return my thanks with heart and lips |
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| For the great queenliness of all those ships. |
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| And first the first bright memory, still so clear, |
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| An autumn evening in a golden year, |
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| When in the last lit moments before dark |
25 |
| The Chepica, a steel-gray lovely barque, |
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| Came to an anchor near us on the flood, |
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| Her trucks aloft in sun-glow red as blood. |
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| Then come so many ships that I could fill |
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| Three docks with their fair hulls remembered still, |
30 |
| Each with her special memory’s special grace, |
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| Riding the sea, making the waves give place |
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| To delicate high beauty; man’s best strength, |
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| Noble in every line in all their length. |
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| Ailsa, Genista, ships, with long jibbooms, |
35 |
| The Wanderer with great beauty and strange dooms, |
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| Liverpool (mightiest then) superb, sublime, |
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| The California huge, as slow as time. |
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| The Copley swift, the perfect J. T. North, |
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| The loveliest barque my city has sent forth, |
40 |
| Dainty John Lockell well remembered yet, |
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| The splendid Argus with her skysail set, |
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| Stalwart Drumcliff, white-blocked, majestic Sierras, |
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| Divine bright ships, the water’s standard-bearers; |
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| Melpomene, Euphrosyne, and their sweet |
45 |
| Sea-troubling sisters of the Fernie fleet; |
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| Corunna (in whom my friend died) and the old |
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| Long since loved Esmeralda long since sold. |
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| Centurion passed in Rio, Glaucus spoken, |
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| Aladdin burnt, the Bidston water-broken, |
50 |
| Yola, in whom my friend sailed, Dawpool trim, |
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| Fierce-bowed Egeria plunging to the swim, |
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| Stanmore wide-sterned, sweet Cupica, tall Bard, |
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| Queen in all harbors with her moon-sail yard. |
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| Though I tell many, there must still be others, |
55 |
| McVickar Marshall’s ships and Fernie Brothers’, |
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| Lochs, Counties, Shires, Drums, the countless lines |
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| Whose house-flags all were once familiar signs |
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| At high main-trucks on Mersey’s windy ways |
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| When sunlight made the wind-white water blaze. |
60 |
| Their names bring back old mornings, when the docks |
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| Shone with their house-flags and their painted blocks, |
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| Their raking masts below the Custom House |
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| And all the marvellous beauty of their bows. |
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| Familiar steamers, too, majestic steamers, |
65 |
| Shearing Atlantic roller-tops to streamers, |
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| Umbria, Etruria, noble, still at sea, |
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| The grandest, then, that man had brought to be. |
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| Majestic, City of Paris, City of Rome, |
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| Forever jealous racers, out and home. |
70 |
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| The Alfred Holt’s blue smoke-stacks down the stream, |
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| The fair Loanda with her bows a-cream. |
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| Booth liners, Anchor liners, Red Star liners, |
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| The marks and styles of countless ship-designers, |
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| The Magdalena, Puno, Potosi, |
75 |
| Lost Cotopaxi, all well known to me. |
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| These splendid ships, each with her grace, her glory, |
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| Her memory of old song or comrade’s story, |
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| Still in my mind the image of life’s need, |
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| Beauty in hardest action, beauty indeed. |
80 |
| “They built great ships and sailed them,” sounds most brave, |
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| Whatever arts we have or fail to have. |
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| I touch my country’s mind, I come to grips |
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| With half her purpose, thinking of these ships: |
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| That art untouched by softness, all that line |
85 |
| Drawn ringing hard to stand the test of brine; |
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| That nobleness and grandeur, all that beauty |
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| Born of a manly life and bitter duty; |
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| That splendor of fine bows which yet could stand |
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| The shock of rollers never checked by land; |
90 |
| That art of masts, sail-crowded, fit to break, |
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| Yet stayed to strength and backstayed into rake; |
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| The life demanded by that art, the keen |
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| Eye-puckered, hard-case seamen, silent, lean. |
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| They are grander things than all the art of towns; |
95 |
| Their tests are tempests and the sea that drowns. |
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| They are my country’s line, her great art done |
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| By strong brains laboring on the thought unwon. |
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| They mark our passage as a race of men— |
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| Earth will not see such ships as those again. |
100 |
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