God, dear God! Does she know her port, Though she goes so far about? Or blind astray, does she make her sport To brazen and chance it out? I watched when her captains passed: She were better captainless. Men in the cabin, before the mast, But some were reckless and some aghast, And some sat gorged at mess.
By her battened hatch I leaned and caught Sounds from the noisome hold,-- Cursing and sighing of souls distraught And cries too sad to be told. Then I strove to go down and see; But they said, "Thou art not of us!" I turned to those on the deck with me And cried, "Give help!" But they said, "Let be: Our ship sails faster thus."
Jill-o'er-the-ground is purple blue, Blue is the quaker-maid, The alder-clump where the brook comes through Breeds cresses in its shade. To be out of the moiling street With its swelter and its sin! Who has given to me this sweet, And given my brother dust to eat? And when will his wage come in?
Scattering wide or blown in ranks, Yellow and white and brown, Boats and boats from the fishing banks Come home to Gloucester town. There is cash to purse and spend, There are wives to be embraced, Hearts to borrow and hearts to lend, And hearts to take and keep to the end,-- O little sails, make haste!
But thou, vast outbound ship of souls, What harbor town for thee? What shapes, when thy arriving tolls, Shall crowd the banks to see? Shall all the happy shipmates then Stand singing brotherly? Or shall a haggard ruthless few Warp her over and bring her to, While the many broken souls of men Fester down in the slaver's pen, And nothing to say or do?
At last the bird that sang so long In twilight circles, hushed his song: Above the ancient square The stars came here and there.
Good Friday night! Some hearts were bowed, But some amid the waiting crowd Because of too much youth Felt not that mystic ruth;
And of these hearts my heart was one: Nor when beneath the arch of stone With dirge and candle flame The cross of passion came,
Did my glad spirit feel reproof, Though on the awful tree aloof, Unspiritual, dead, Drooped the ensanguined Head.
To one who stood where myrtles made A little space of deeper shade (As I could half descry, A stranger, even as I),
I said, "These youths who bear along The symbols of their Saviour's wrong, The spear, the garment torn, The flaggel, and the thorn,--