“Vessels fitted unto destruction”--how many may be unconsciously
so marked by their Maker! A vessel is condemned as unseaworthy;
her sails are sold, her spars and rigging, and when all that can
be moved is gone, the dismantled hulk is moored in some coaling
station. There, black from stem to stern, with a great white
number painted on her side, she floats until her timbers rot to
pieces--
Anchored forever--sea-lord once, and free--
Fouled by the creeping weeds that work unseen,
Lashed by the mocking winds that erst we braved,
Dread we the coming of the Southern night.
Stars that we tamed to guide our prows of old
Laugh in their sky of purple tapestry--
Ay, laugh: we are condemned of man to die! (Text.)
--MARGARET GARDINER, _Century_.
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