Rejoice! rejoice to obey
In the great hour of life that men call Death
The beat that bids thee draw heroic breath,
Deep-throbbing till thy mortal heart be dumb
Come! . . . Come! . . . the time is come!
THE skippers and the mates, they know!
The men aloft or down below,
They've heard the news and still they go.
The merchant ships still jog along,
By Bay or Cape, an endless throng,
As endless as a seaman's song.
The humbler tramps aloft display
The English flag as on the day
When no one troubled such as they.
The lesser ships—barks, schooners, brigs—
A motley crowd of many rigs,
Go on their way like farmers' gigs.
Where Æolus himself has thrones
The big four-master Glasgow owns
Through Trades and Roaring Forties drones.
The lofty liners in their pride
Stem every current, every tide:
At anchor in all ports they ride.
They signal Gib., which looks and winks;
Grave Malta sees them as she thinks;
They pass old Egypt's ageless Sphinx.
Sokotra knows them; Zanzibar
Mirrors them in its oil; they are
Hove to for pilots near and far.