Though I tell many there must still be others, McVickar Marshall’s ships and Fernie Brothers’ _Lochs_, _Counties_, _Shires_, _Drums_, the countless lines Whose house-flags all were once familiar signs At high main trucks on Mersey’s windy ways When sun made all the wind-white water blaze. Their names bring back old mornings when the docks Shone with their house-flags and their painted blocks, Their raking masts below the Custom House And all the marvellous beauty of their bows. Familiar steamers, too, majestic steamers, Shearing Atlantic roller-tops to streamers _Umbria_, _Etruria_, noble, still at sea, The grandest, then, that man had brought to be _Majestic_, _City of Paris_, _City of Rome_, Forever jealous racers, out and home. The Alfred Holt’s blue smokestacks down the stream, The fair _Arabian_ with her bows a-cream. Booth liners, Anchor liners, Red Star liners, The marks and styles of countless ship designers. The _Magdalena_, _Puno_, _Potosi_, Lost _Cotopaxi_, all well known to me. These splendid ships, each with her grace, her glory, Her memory of old song or comrade’s story, Still in my mind the image of life’s need, Beauty in hardest action, beauty indeed. “They built great ships and sailed them” sounds most brave, Whatever arts we have or fail to have; I touch my country’s mind, I come to grips With half her purpose thinking of these ships. That art untouched by softness, all that line Drawn ringing hard to stand the test of brine; That nobleness and grandeur, all that beauty Born of a manly life and bitter duty; That splendour of fine bows which yet could stand The shock of rollers never checked by land. That art of masts, sail-crowded, fit to break, Yet stayed to strength, and back-stayed into rake, The life demanded by that art, the keen Eye-puckered, hard-case seamen, silent, lean, They are grander things than all the art of towns, Their tests are tempests and the sea that drowns. They are my country’s line, her great art done By strong brains labouring on the thought unwon, They mark our passage as a race of men, Earth will not see such ships as those agen. SONNET ON THE DEATH OF HIS WIFE (FROM THE PORTUGUESE OF ANTONIO DI FERREIRO) That blessed sunlight, that once showed to me My way to heaven more plain, more certainly, And with her bright beams banished utterly All trace of mortal sorrow far from me, Has gone from me, has left her prison sad, And I am blind and alone and gone astray, Like a lost pilgrim on a desert way Wanting the blessed guide that once he had.