O'er our broad deck-and fill the copious bowl
With a whole deluge to exalt his soul:-
The bowl that holds three gallons and a half,
The bowl it suits an admiral to quaff—
The bowl of silver fretted round with gold,
Imbost with sea-fights, and commanders bold.
Broach the old rum-a keg of that fam'd tier
In the forehold-take not the light too near.
As in the cup the liquid amber* flows,
Pour a full tide to smooth his wrinkled brows, 1000
Nor spare the stream-our trident-bearing guest,
A main-brace splicer, loves the northward zest.†
As o'er the deep the mighty Neptune flew,
A shout he rais'd that shook the warrior crew-
Such his strong voice, as not in force to yield 1005
To routed armies when they leave the field.
Dire was the din-appalling the full sound,
The hoary deeps divide-the caves rebound;
Our tall ship trembled on the echoing tide,
The chief turn'd pale, in soul by none outvied. 1010
* Liquid amber-a periphrasis for rum.
+ Grog on board ship, when it tastes of the prime ingredient, is said to be made to the northward; implying, I presume, that it is mixed so as to suit the meridian of a freezing climate.
Now near the bark, he curb'd his coursers' bound,
Reclin'd, and cast his azure eyes around-
Gaz'd on our yards-our spiry masts so tall,
Our sides black frowning as a castle wall-
The countless numbers of our frolic crew,
Spurning his own sea-waves before his view:-
Then, with a spring, his reeling chariot leaves,
And his firm step our groaning deck receives.
All hail! he said—the captain forward sprung,
And on the monarch's neck with fondness hung,
And cried, as with his palm he press'd his hand,
Welcome on board the ship that I command!
When Neptune thus-how travel brings decay
On mortal man, blanching the head with grey-
Ulysses stood at his own porch unknown,
Unrecogniz'd by father, wife, and son.
A sea-boy thee I knew, with heart as stout
As ever haul'd a weather-earing out*—
But now so alter'd !-while I grasp thy hand,
Scarce do I ken thee, as on deck we stand :
But for the cruel beauty of thine eye,
My dear Delancey I should not descry!
To whom the naval chief with grace serene-
Not years, but toils, have thus transform'd my mien :
In lying out on a ship's yard to reef a sail when it blows fresh,
the place of distinction is the weather-earing.
Dire is thy ocean, dread in all its forms,
He must decay who combats thee in storms.
Whence com'st thou, chief?
But how is this your fore-top bowlines reeve?
I see no blocks-
The bees supply a sheave.‡
The monarch paus'd, and with terrific grace,
His huge form rested on his ponderous mace,
Full twenty cubits long-and so large round,
That not ten tars could raise it from the ground.
And while he gaz'd-o'er the extended tier
The gunners wav'd the match be-dipp'd with fire-
* A ship is said to shew her teeth, when she displays her guns run out the whole length of their tier.
A punning allusion to the British Lion.
Our fore-top bowline discovered a fantastic innovation, by reeving through a sheave cut in the bees, instead of leading through a block so the gaff-haliards reeved through a sheave in the gaff. This was a fancy of the young officers.
The captain gave the sign-our thunder broke,
And peal on peal a salutation spoke.
And as the mortars breathe out flame and night,
Full many a pulse recalls the ocean-fight- 1060
While Neptune smil'd with that benignant mien,
Which to the deep restores the blue serene.
And now, beneath a canopy of state,
Rais'd o'er the deck, the mighty monarch sate,
Beside the chief-there three lieutenants brave, 1065
Young cavaliers, their kind attendance gave:
Each fram'd at masques to win a lady's ear,
Lie at her feet, and on her sandal swear.
Columbians all in peace their chief's delight,
In war his champions, foremost in the fight.
But while, alas! they minister'd the bowl,
A sigh reluctant from Delancey stole,
Who from his bosom wish'd, but wish'd in vain,
That Taleot's form could grace the gallant train.
Now when the thirst of Neptune was represt, 1075 The captain leant and eyed his giant guest.
The features of his weather-beaten face,
With comely terror mix'd, and frowning grace.
His sable beard with spotted sea-shells drest,
Which like a forest mantled o'er his breast;
The conch of purple o'er his brave head plac'd,
With wreathing salt-weed formidably grac'd,
And coral branch, of bright, unsullied hue,
From blemish free, as on the rock it grew.
The gallon-cup that to his neck was chain'd,
With which the casks of founder'd ships he drain’d;
But his huge hand now to the full bowl stray'd,
And to his longing lip the luscious draught convey'd.
Lost in deep thought, the trident bearer gaz'd
With uprais'd vision, and the frigate prais'd. 1090
Fair is your ship! she fills my wondering eyes
A sixty-four-gun vessel in disguise.*
It has been a fashion to call the American frigates seventy-fours in disguise; but the assumption is unwarranted. Were they virtually line of battle ships, no vessel that fights her heavy guns on one deck could have lain alongside of them ten minutes without foundering. But the Guerriere fought the Constitution, the Macedonian the United States, and the Java the Constitution, till they scarcely had a stick left standing. To settle the discussion, we need only refer to the
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