Stedman and Hutchinson, comps. A Library of American Literature:
An Anthology in Eleven Volumes. 1891.
Vols. IX–XI: Literature of the Republic, Part IV., 1861–1889
The Moorings
By William Wallace Harney (18311912)M
And slowly under her keel
The long wave seems to feel—
To crawl and feel its way,
Lest her timbers rip
The smooth photogeny
Of the picture of the ship
In the hollow of the sea.
The short tide comes and goes,
Crunching under her toes,
In and out of the bay,
Muttering and coughing;
And, lazily enough,
Around her in the offing
The sun and shadows luff.
The burly tugs and ferries,
The fishing smacks and wherries,
And the thirsty sandy slips.
She sees their shadows clear,
By one and two and three,
Appear and disappear
In the hollow of the sea.
Timbers in old traffic,
Down the coast of Afric,
Sailing from Gibraltar,
Round by Mozambique?
Shall she never speak
Sampan rafts afloat,
The lean-toothed sloop of war,
Or, home-bound, the pilot-boat,
At the break of the harbor bar?
Blacken the night with rain,
Feel her canvas strain
From truck to futtock shrouds,
To run the sharp blockade,
With the Federal gun-boats at her,
Bursting a cannonade
In the hiss of the driving water?
Of war and tempest and gain;
No more will the quickening strain
Start in the old sea-rover
To the crack of the cannons’ snapping,
The shouts of the men, the souse
Of the salt brine barking and flapping
And poppling under her bows.
Sag down from the yard;
The mildew is in her sails;
The shell-fish crusts a shard
Over her copper legging;
And, limed in the ooze, she waits,
Like Belisarius begging
At the conquered city’s gates.