Ballads of Lost Haven | Page 6

it's never again the Nancy's Pride?That draws men down the street.
On the Banks to-night a fearsome sight?The fishermen behold,?Keeping the ghost watch in the moon?When the small hours are cold.
When the light wind veers, and the white fog clears,?They see by the after rail?An unknown schooner creeping up?With mildewed spar and sail.
Her crew lean forth by the rotting shrouds,?With the Judgment in their face;?And to their mates' "God save you!"?Have never a word of grace.
Then into the gray they sheer away,?On the awful polar tide;?And the sailors know they have seen the wraith?Of the missing Nancy's Pride.
ARNOLD, MASTER OF THE SCUD
There's a schooner out from Kingsport,?Through the morning's dazzle-gleam,?Snoring down the Bay of Fundy?With a norther on her beam.
How the tough wind springs to wrestle,?When the tide is on the flood!?And between them stands young daring--?Arnold, master of the Scud.
He is only "Martin's youngster,"?To the Minas coasting fleet,?"Twelve year old, and full of Satan?As a nut is full of meat."
With a wake of froth behind him,?And the gold green waste before,?Just as though the sea this morning?Were his boat pond by the door,
Legs a-straddle, grips the tiller?This young waif of the old sea;?When the wind comes harder, only?Laughs "Hurrah!" and holds her free.
Little wonder, as you watch him?With the dash in his blue eye,?Long ago his father called him?"Arnold, Master," on the sly,
While his mother's heart foreboded?Reckless father makes rash son.?So to-day the schooner carries?Just these two whose will is one.
Now the wind grows moody, shifting?Point by point into the east.?Wing and wing the Scud is flying?With her scuppers full of yeast.
And the father's older wisdom?On the sea-line has descried,?Like a stealthy cloud-bank making?Up to windward with the tide,
Those tall navies of disaster,?The pale squadrons of the fog,?That maraud this gray world border?Without pilot, chart, or log,
Ranging wanton as marooners?From Minudie to Manan.?"Heave to, and we'll reef, my master!"?Cries he; when no will of man
Spills the foresail, but a clumsy?Wind-flaw with a hand like stone?Hurls the boom round. In an instant?Arnold, Master, there alone
Sees a crushed corpse shot to seaward,?With the gray doom in its face;?And the climbing foam receives it?To its everlasting place.
What does Arnold, Master, think you??Whimper like a child for dread??That's not Arnold. Foulest weather?Strongest sailors ever bred.
And this slip of taut sea-faring?Grows a man who throttles fear.?Let the storm and dark in spite now?Do their worst with valor here!
Not a reef and not a shiver,?While the wind jeers in her shrouds,?And the flauts of foam and sea-fog?Swarm upon her deck in crowds,
Flies the Scud like a mad racer;?And with iron in his frown,?Holding hard by wrath and dreadnought,?Arnold, Master, rides her down.
Let the taffrail shriek through foam-heads!?Let the licking seas go glut?Elsewhere their old hunger, baffled!?Arnold's making for the Gut.
Cleft sheer down, the sea-wall mountains?Give that one port on the coast;?Made, the Basin lies in sunshine!?Missed, the little Scud is lost!
Come now, fog-horn, let your warning?Rip the wind to starboard there!?Suddenly that burly-throated?Welcome ploughs the cumbered air.
The young master hauls a little,?Crowds her up and sheets her home,?Heading for the narrow entry?Whence the safety signals come.
Then the wind lulls, and an eddy?Tells of ledges, where away;?Veers the Scud, sheet free, sun breaking,?Through the rifts, and--there's the bay!
Like a bird in from the storm-beat,?As the summer sun goes down,?Slows the schooner to her moorings?By the wharf at Digby town.
All the world next morning wondered.?Largest letters, there it stood,?"Storm in Fundy. A Boy's Daring.?Arnold, Master of the Scud."
THE SHIPS OF ST. JOHN
Smile, you inland hills and rivers!?Flush, you mountains in the dawn!?But my roving heart is seaward?With the ships of gray St. John.
Fair the land lies, full of August,?Meadow island, shingly bar,?Open barns and breezy twilight,?Peace and the mild evening star.
Gently now this gentlest country?The old habitude takes on,?But my wintry heart is outbound?With the great ships of St. John.
Once in your wide arms you held me,?Till the man-child was a man,?Canada, great nurse and mother?Of the young sea-roving clan.
Always your bright face above me?Through the dreams of boyhood shone;?Now far alien countries call me?With the ships of gray St. John.
Swing, you tides, up out of Fundy!?Blow, you white fogs, in from sea!?I was born to be your fellow;?You were bred to pilot me.
At the touch of your strong fingers,?Doubt, the derelict, is gone;?Sane and glad I clear the headland?With the white ships of St. John.
Loyalists, my fathers, builded?This gray port of the gray sea,?When the duty to ideals?Could not let well-being be.
When the breadth of scarlet bunting?Puts the wreath of maple on,?I must cheer too,--slip my moorings?With the ships of gray St. John.
Peerless-hearted port of heroes,?Be a word to lift the world,?Till the many see the signal?Of the few once more unfurled.
Past the lighthouse, past the nunbuoy,?Past the crimson rising sun,?There are dreams go down the harbor?With the tall ships of St. John.
In the morning I am