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Silver and gray ran spit and bay to meet the steel

backed tide, And pinched and white in the clearing light the

crews stared overside. O rainbow-gay the red pools lay that swilled and

spilled and spread, And gold, raw gold, the spent shell rolled between

the careless deadThe dead that rocked so drunkenwise to weather

and to lee, And they saw the work their hands had done as

God had bade them see!

And a little breeze blew over the rail that made

the headsails lift, But no man stood by wheel or sheet, and they let

the schooners drift. And the rattle rose in Reuben's throat and he cast

his soul with a cry, And “Gone already ?” Tom Hall he said. “Then

it's time for me to die.” His eyes were heavy with great sleep and yearn

ing for the land, And he spoke as a man that talks in dreams, his

wound beneath his hand.

“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,

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 veiledThrough 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 When the sealing-schooners flit that way at hazard

headlands drear

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 !

THE DERELICT.

“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

graining;

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