O, the romp and the rift of the shifting sea! The pomp of the lifting sea! O, the hurrying rills where the cauldron spills On the rocks in their scurrying glee! O, the bellowing leagues of the sea’s intrigues, As we row like a galley-slave, Where the breakers glide as we slither and ride On the back of a balky wave! O, we whistle a song as we swash along Through gullies and mountain high, As we hunt the dark, and we hunt the rain, And we hunt the haunts of the wind’s domain, For a glim in the inky sky. O, the bloom of the night as she heaves in sight, On the desolate water’s wings! O, the bellying sheer (and no Chaplain near) Where the old ship’s ladder swings. O, the pomp and the rift, the slip and the shift, The wheel of the Stygian foam; O, the shimmering shroud where the thunders crowd, And wilder our dreams of home. THE DERELICT. Make way! Make way! to the larboard! port! The chop and the swell are mine! And I am the ghost of the brawling tide, The lord of the whelming brine! And I am the wraith of the inky rain, Made mad by the swash and swirl, That pillaged the souls of a hundred men, Who sunk in a dizzy whirl. Dip, dip your flag and your milk-white rag, And lavish your dole and fee, But turn your prow! Make room! Make room! For there’s never a truce for me! I challenge the bar and the stout sea-wall; I silence the brazen bell; I muffle the song of the galley-slave In a maze and a dream of hell. For mine is the blood of the blackest night, Made red by the comet’s flare; And I am in league with the rampant blade That leaps from the thunder’s lair. I masque in the targe of the afterglow, When the fisherman tacks for home; I crouch in the track where the green-bills whirl, And hide in the gullied foam. O, the long-wide waves, with their snowy bloom, When the winds are at rest, are mine; And the organ-shrill of the equinox, Which musters the hordes in line, Comes echoing back from the low frontier, And crags where the breakers boom, Like the crooning notes of a lorelei, For I am the sleuth of Doom. And ever the cry of the wander-lure, Alert with a lifting wing, Is urging me on through the sludge and spume, With a sugg and a heave and swing. And I am alive! though the dead be dead, And huddled in crowds below, With their faces paled in a murky sleep; Make way! Make way! Yo ho! For I am in search of the glut and sack, The plunder of ship and crew, And I am the skipper of wrack and raid, And my hundred souls are true! And I am the stumbling-block of life, The lord of the whelming brine, I flank the gates of the curving world, And its great sea-paths are mine. SALT O’ THE SEA.