15 Sydney Fletcher, Bristol-bred, (Low lie his mates now on watery bed) Takes to the seas and snows As sheer down the ship goes. 16 Now her afterdraught gullies him too down; Now he wrings for breath with the deathgush brown; Till a lifebelt and God's will Lend him a lift from the sea-swill. 17 Now he shoots short up to the round air; Now he gasps, now he gazes everywhere; But his eye no cliff, no coast or Mark makes in the rivelling snowstorm. 18 Him, after an hour of wintry waves, A schooner sights, with another, and saves, And he boards her in Oh! such joy He has lost count what came next, poor boy.-- 19 They say who saw one sea-corpse cold He was all of lovely manly mould, Every inch a tar, Of the best we boast our sailors are. 20 Look, foot to forelock, how all things suit! he Is strung by duty, is strained to beauty, And brown-as-dawning-skinned With brine and shine and whirling wind. 21 O his nimble finger, his gnarled grip! Leagues, leagues of seamanship Slumber in these forsaken Bones, this sinew, and will not waken. 22 He was but one like thousands more, Day and night I deplore My people and born own nation, Fast foundering own generation, 23 I might let bygones be--our curse Of ruinous shrine no hand or, worse, Robbery's hand is busy to Dress, hoar-hallowed shrines unvisited; 24 Only the breathing temple and fleet Life, this wildworth blown so sweet, These daredeaths, ay this crew, in Unchrist, all rolled in ruin-- 25 Deeply surely I need to deplore it, Wondering why my master bore it, The riving off that race So at home, time was, to his truth and grace 26 That a starlight-wender of ours would say The marvellous Milk was Walsingham Way And one--but let be, let be: More, more than was will yet be.-- 27 O well wept, mother have lost son; Wept, wife; wept, sweetheart would be one: Though grief yield them no good Yet shed what tears sad truelove should. 28 But to Christ lord of thunder Crouch; lay knee by earth low under: 'Holiest, loveliest, bravest, Save my hero, O Hero savest. 29 And the prayer thou hearst me making Have, at the awful overtaking, Heard; have heard and granted Grace that day grace was wanted.' 30 Not that hell knows redeeming, But for souls sunk in seeming Fresh, till doomfire burn all, Prayer shall fetch pity eternal. _18 The May Magnificat_ MAY is Mary's month, and I Muse at that and wonder why: Her feasts follow reason, Dated due to season-- Candlemas, Lady Day; But the Lady Month, May, Why fasten that upon her, With a feasting in her honour? Is it only its being brighter Than the most are must delight her? Is it opportunest And flowers finds soonest? Ask of her, the mighty mother: Her reply puts this other Question: What is Spring?-- Growth in every thing-- Flesh and fleece, fur and feather, Grass and green world all together; Star-eyed strawberry-breasted Throstle above her nested