Who hath desired the Sea? Her excellent loneliness rather Than forecourts of kings, and her outermost pits than the streets where men gather Inland, among dust, under trees--inland where the slayer may slay him-- Inland, out of reach of her arms, and the bosom whereon he must lay him-- His Sea at the first that betrayed--at the last that shall never betray him-- His Sea that his being fulfils? So and no otherwise--so and no otherwise hillmen desire their Hills. THE BELL BUOY [Page 4] They christened my brother of old-- And a saintly name he bears-- They gave him his place to hold At the head of the belfry-stairs, Where the minster-towers stand And the breeding kestrels cry. Would I change with my brother a league inland? (_Shoal! ’Ware shoal!_) Not I! In the flush of the hot June prime, O’er smooth flood-tides afire, I hear him hurry the chime To the bidding of checked Desire; Till the sweated ringers tire And the wild bob-majors die. Could I wait for my turn in the godly choir? (_Shoal! ’Ware shoal!_) Not I! When the smoking scud is blown, When the greasy wind-rack lowers, Apart and at peace and alone, He counts the changeless hours. He wars with darkling Powers (I war with a darkling sea); Would he stoop to my work in the gusty mirk? (_Shoal! ’Ware shoal!_) Not he! There was never a priest to pray, There was never a hand to toll, When they made me guard of the bay, And moored me over the shoal. I rock, I reel, and I roll-- My four great hammers ply-- Could I speak or be still at the Church’s will? (_Shoal! ’Ware shoal!_) Not I! The landward marks have failed, The fog-bank glides unguessed, The seaward lights are veiled, The spent deep feigns her rest: But my ear is laid to her breast, I lift to the swell--I cry! Could I wait in sloth on the Church’s oath? (_Shoal! ’Ware shoal!_) Not I! At the careless end of night I thrill to the nearing screw; I turn in the nearing light And I call to the drowsy crew; And the mud boils foul and blue As the blind bow backs away. Will they give me their thanks if they clear the banks? (_Shoal! ’Ware shoal!_) Not they! The beach-pools cake and skim, The bursting spray-heads freeze, I gather on crown and rim The grey, grained ice of the seas, Where, sheathed from bitt to trees, The plunging colliers lie. Would I barter my place for the Church’s grace? (_Shoal! ’Ware shoal!_) Not I! Through the blur of the whirling snow, Or the black of the inky sleet, The lanterns gather and grow, And I look for the homeward fleet. Rattle of block and sheet-- ‘Ready about--stand by!’ Shall I ask them a fee ere they fetch the quay? (_Shoal! ’Ware shoal!_) Not I!