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“Oh, there comes no good in the westering wind

that backs against the sun; “Wash down the decks—they're all too red—and

share the skins and run, “Baltic, Stralsund, and Northern Light,-clean

share and share for all, “You'll find the fleets off Tolstoi Mees, but you

will not find Tom Hall. “Evil he did in shoal-water and blacker sin on the

deep, “But now he's sick of watch and trick, and now

he'll turn and sleep. “He'll have no more of the crawling sea that

made him suffer so, “But he'll lie down on the killing-grounds where

the holluschickie go. “And west you'll turn and south again, beyond the

sea-fog's rim, And tell the Yoshiwara girls to burn a stick for

him. And you'll not weight him by the heels and

dump him overside, “But carry him up to the sand-hollows to die as

Bering died, “ And make a place for Reuben Paine that knows

the fight was fair,

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“And leave the two that did the wrong to talk it,

over there!”

Half-steam ahead by guess and lead, for the sun

is mostly veiled Through fog to fog, by luck and log, sail ye as

Bering sailed; And, if the light shall lift aright to give your land

fall plain, North and by west, from Zapne Crest, ye raise

the Crosses Twain. Fair marks are they to the inner bay, the reckless

poacher knows, What time the scarred see-catchie lead their sleek

seraglios. Ever they hear the floe-pack clear, and the blast of

the old bull-whale, And the deep seal-roar that beats off shore above

the loudest gale. Ever they wait the winter's hate as the thundering

boorga calls, Where northward look they to St. George, and

westward to St. Paul's. Ever they greet the hunted fleet-lone keels off

headlands drear

When the sealing-schooners flit that way at hazard

year by year. Ever in Yokohama Port men tell the tale anew

Of a hidden sea and a hidden fight, When the Baltic ran from the Northern Light And the Stralsund fought the two !


“And reports the derelict Mary Pollock still at sea."

Shipping News.

I was the staunchest of our fleet

Till the Sea rose beneath our feet Unheralded, in hatred past all measure. Into his pits he stamped my crew,

Buffeted, blinded, bound and threw; Bidding me eyeless wait upon his pleasure.

Man made me, and my will

Is to my maker still,
Whom now the currents con, the rollers steer-

Lifting forlorn to spy

Trailed smoke along the sky, Falling afraid lest any keel come near.

Wrenched as the lips of thirst,

Wried, dried, and split and burst, Bone-bleached my decks, wind-scoured to the


And, jarred at every roll,

The gear that was my soul Answers the anguish of my beams' complaining.

For life that crammed me full,

Gangs of the prying gull
That shriek and scrabble on the riven hatches.

For roar that dumbed the gale

My hawse-pipes guttering wail, Sobbing my heart out through the uncounted


Blind in the hot blue ring

Through all my points I swingSwing and return to shift the sun anew.

Blind in my well-known sky

I hear the stars go by,
Mocking the prow that can not hold one true!

White on my wasted path

Wave after wave in wrath
Frets 'gainst his fellow, warring where to send

Flung forward, heaved aside,

Witless and dazed I bide
The mercy of the comber that shall end me.

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