The ship lay tossing on the stormy ocean,
A head wind challenging her right of way;
Sail after sail she furled; in exultation
The waves accounted her their yielding prey.
On her lee beam the Patagonia coast line
Keeps ambushed reefs to snare the drifting keel;
We fancied breakers in the dying sunshine,
And questioned what the daybreak would reveal.
No cities, towns, nor quiet rural village
Gladden the heart along this lonely way;
But cannibals may lurk with death and pillage
For all whom winds and currents force astray.
The Falkland Isles, Tierra del Fuego,
Straits of Le Maire, the near Antarctic Zone,
The stormy Horn, whose rocks the tempest echo,
Can faith and courage there maintain their throne?
Watching the swell from out the cabin windows,
The towering waves piled high and steep appear;
But what is riding on those mighty billows?
An albatross. The sight allays my fear.
Her snow-white breast she settles on the water,
Her dark wings fluttering while she trims her form,
Then calmly rides; nor can the great waves daunt her,
Nor will she heed the menace of the storm.
She spreads her wings, flies low across the vessel,
She scans the wake, then sails around the bows,
Not moving either pinion; much I marvel
How like one flying in a dream she goes.
She craves the presence of no other sea-bird;
She revels in the power to go at will;
The ocean solitudes, the wandering seaward,
The distant sail, her daring spirit thrill.
Behold, this fowl hath neither barn nor storehouse;
An unseen Hand assists her search for food;
Storms bring her up deep things of ocean’s produce,
Prized the more highly in the storm pursued.
With joy each day I’ll take the wings of morning,
Dwell in the utmost parts of this lone sea;
E’en there thy hand shall lead me, still adoring,
And thy right hand shall hold who trust in Thee.