Brigs that figs for market gather, Homeward-bound upon the stretch, Encounter oft this uglier weather Yet in end their port they fetch. Mark yon craft from sunny Smyrna Glazed with ice in Boston Bay; Out they toss the fig-drums cheerly, Livelier for the frosty ray. What if sleet off-shore assailed her, What though ice yet plate her yards; In wintry port not less she renders Summer’s gift with warm regards! And, look, the underwriters’ man, Timely, when the stevedore’s done, Puts on his _specs_ to pry and scan, And sets her down—_A, No. 1._ Bravo, master! Bravo, brig! For slanting snows out of the West Never the _Snow-Bird_ cares one fig; And foul winds steady her, though a pest. OLD COUNSEL _Of The Young Master of a Wrecked California Clipper_ Come out of the Golden Gate, Go round the Horn with streamers, Carry royals early and late; But, brother, be not over-elate— _All hands save ship!_ has startled dreamers. THE TUFT OF KELP All dripping in tangles green, Cast up by a lonely sea If purer for that, O Weed, Bitterer, too, are ye? THE MALDIVE SHARK About the Shark, phlegmatical one, Pale sot of the Maldive sea, The sleek little pilot-fish, azure and slim, How alert in attendance be. From his saw-pit of mouth, from his charnel of maw They have nothing of harm to dread, But liquidly glide on his ghastly flank Or before his Gorgonian head: Or lurk in the port of serrated teeth In white triple tiers of glittering gates, And there find a haven when peril’s abroad, An asylum in jaws of the Fates! They are friends; and friendly they guide him to prey, Yet never partake of the treat— Eyes and brains to the dotard lethargic and dull, Pale ravener of horrible meat. TO NED Where is the world we roved, Ned Bunn? Hollows thereof lay rich in shade By voyagers old inviolate thrown Ere Paul Pry cruised with Pelf and Trade. To us old lads some thoughts come home Who roamed a world young lads no more shall roam. Nor less the satiate year impends When, wearying of routine-resorts, The pleasure-hunter shall break loose, Ned, for our Pantheistic ports:— Marquesas and glenned isles that be Authentic Edens in a Pagan sea. The charm of scenes untried shall lure, And, Ned, a legend urge the flight— The Typee-truants under stars Unknown to Shakespere’s _Midsummer-Night;_ And man, if lost to Saturn’s Age, Yet feeling life no Syrian pilgrimage. But, tell, shall he, the tourist, find Our isles the same in violet-glow Enamoring us what years and years— Ah, Ned, what years and years ago! Well, Adam advances, smart in pace, But scarce by violets that advance you trace. But we, in anchor-watches calm, The Indian Psyche’s languor won, And, musing, breathed primeval balm From Edens ere yet overrun; Marvelling mild if mortal twice, Here and hereafter, touch a Paradise. CROSSING THE TROPICS _From “The Saya-y-Manto.”_