Wife, where be all these chaps, I wonder? Trumpets in the tempest, terrors in the fray, Boomed their commands along the deck like thunder; But silent is the sod, and thunder dies away. But Captain Turret, _“Old Hemlock”_ tall, (A leaning tower when his tank brimmed all,) Manoeuvre out alive from the war did he? Or, too old for that, drift under the lee? Kentuckian colossal, who, touching at Madeira, The huge puncheon shipped o’ prime _Santa-Clara;_ Then rocked along the deck so solemnly! No whit the less though judicious was enough In dealing with the Finn who made the great huff; Our three-decker’s giant, a grand boatswain’s mate, Manliest of men in his own natural senses; But driven stark mad by the devil’s drugged stuff, Storming all aboard from his run-ashore late, Challenging to battle, vouchsafing no pretenses, A reeling King Ogg, delirious in power, The quarter-deck carronades he seemed to make cower. “Put him in _brig_ there!” said Lieutenant Marrot. “Put him in _brig!_” back he mocked like a parrot; “Try it, then!” swaying a fist like Thor’s sledge, And making the pigmy constables hedge— Ship’s corporals and the master-at-arms. “In _brig_ there, I say!”—They dally no more; Like hounds let slip on a desperate boar, Together they pounce on the formidable Finn, Pinion and cripple and hustle him in. Anon, under sentry, between twin guns, He slides off in drowse, and the long night runs. Morning brings a summons. Whistling it calls, Shrilled through the pipes of the boatswain’s four aids; Trilled down the hatchways along the dusk halls: _Muster to the Scourge!_—Dawn of doom and its blast! As from cemeteries raised, sailors swarm before the mast, Tumbling up the ladders from the ship’s nether shades. Keeping in the background and taking small part, Lounging at their ease, indifferent in face, Behold the trim marines uncompromised in heart; Their Major, buttoned up, near the staff finds room— The staff o’ lieutenants standing grouped in their place. All the Laced Caps o’ the ward-room come, The Chaplain among them, disciplined and dumb. The blue-nosed boatswain, complexioned like slag, Like a blue Monday lours—his implements in bag. Executioners, his aids, a couple by him stand, At a nod there the thongs to receive from his hand. Never venturing a caveat whatever may betide, Though functionally here on humanity’s side, The grave Surgeon shows, like the formal physician Attending the rack o’ the Spanish Inquisition. The angel o’ the “brig” brings his prisoner up; Then, steadied by his old _Santa-Clara_, a sup, Heading all erect, the ranged assizes there, Lo, Captain Turret, and under starred bunting, (A florid full face and fine silvered hair,) Gigantic the yet greater giant confronting.