George Allan Mackenzie (1849–1936)

THERE is no change upon the deep;

Each day they see the prospect wide

Of yesterday: the same waves leap:

The same pale clouds the distance hide,

Or shaped to mountain-peaks their hopes of land deride.

On, and still on, the soft winds bear

The rocking vessel, and the main

That is so pitiless and so fair,

Seems like a billowy, boundless plain

Where one might sail, and sail, and ever sail in vain.

Famine is there with haggard cheek,

And Fever stares from hollow eyes;

And sullen murmurs rise, that speak

Curses on him whose mad emprise

Has lured men from their homes to die ’neath alien skies.

But he, the captain, he is calm:

His glance compels the mutineer:

In fainting hearts he pours the balm

Of sympathy and lofty cheer:

‘Courage, a few more leagues will prove the earth a sphere.

‘The world is round: there is an end:

We do not vainly toil and roam:

The kiss of wife, the clasp of friend,

The fountains and the vines of home

Wait us beyond the cloud, beyond the edge of foam.