As the quivering stag at the bullet’s sting,
Who knew not harm was nigh,
So shook the Ship by seam and seam
In the death that may not die.
And though it sailed o’er every wave,
By reef and barrier bar,
’Neath the glare of the South Seas’ scorching sun
And the gleam of the lone North Star.
Though it lifted the lights o’ the Ports-o’-Call,
By green and crimson beam,
It never lifted the Light again--
The Light that fled as a dream.
Over a blue-black endless sea--
Over a timeless void--
Callous and careless plunged the Ship
That never a storm destroyed.
Skimming the foaming coral reef--
Daring the mid-deep wind--
Clipping the roar of the white lee shore
Where the Gods of Chance run blind.
Full belly sail before the gale--
With scuppers churning green--
And eyes set dead in a figure-head
That dipped in the troughs between:
That rose and fell and cut the swell--
Or knew the day or night;
That rose and fell to the soundless bell
Of the Port o’ Lost Delight.