Part 43

MARE LIBERUM

You dare to say with perjured lips, "We fight to make the ocean free"? You, whose black trail of butchered ships Bestrews the bed of every sea Where German submarines have wrought Their horrors! Have you never thought,-- What you call freedom, men call piracy!

Unnumbered ghosts that haunt the wave Where you have murdered, cry you down; And seamen whom you would not save, Weave now in weed-grown depths a crown Of shame for your imperious head,-- A dark memorial of the dead,-- Women and children whom you left to drown.

Nay, not till thieves are set to guard The gold, and corsairs called to keep O'er peaceful commerce watch and ward, And wolves to herd the helpless sheep, Shall men and women look to thee-- Thou ruthless Old Man of the Sea-- To safeguard law and freedom on the deep!

In nobler breeds we put our trust: The nations in whose sacred lore The "Ought" stands out above the "Must," And Honor rules in peace and war. With these we hold in soul and heart, With these we choose our lot and part, Till Liberty is safe on sea and shore.

Henry van Dyke

February 11, 1917

THE DAWN PATROL

Sometimes I fly at dawn above the sea, Where, underneath, the restless waters flow-- Silver, and cold, and slow, Dim in the east there burns a new-born sun, Whose rosy gleams along the ripples run, Save where the mist droops low, Hiding the level loneliness from me.

And now appears beneath the milk-white haze A little fleet of anchored ships, which lie In clustered company, And seem as they are yet fast bound by sleep, Although the day has long begun to peep, With red-inflamèd eye, Along the still, deserted ocean ways.

The fresh, cold wind of dawn blows on my face As in the sun's raw heart I swiftly fly, And watch the seas glide by. Scarce human seem I, moving through the skies, And far removed from warlike enterprise-- Like some great gull on high Whose white and gleaming wings beat on through space.

Then do I feel with God quite, quite alone, High in the virgin morn, so white and still, And free from human ill: My prayers transcend my feeble earth-bound plaints-- As though I sang among the happy Saints With many a holy thrill-- As though the glowing sun were God's bright Throne.

My flight is done. I cross the line of foam That breaks around a town of grey and red, Whose streets and squares lie dead Beneath the silent dawn--then am I proud That England's peace to guard I am allowed; Then bow my humble head, In thanks to Him Who brings me safely home.

Paul Bewsher

DESTROYERS OFF JUTLAND

They had hot scent across the spumy sea, Gehenna and her sister, swift Shaitan, That in the pack, with Goblin, Eblis ran And many a couple more, full cry, foot-free; The dog-fox and his brood were fain to flee, But bare of fang and dangerous to the van That pressed them close. So when the kill began Some hounds were lamed and some died splendidly.

But from the dusk along the Skagerack, Until dawn loomed upon the Reef of Horn And the last fox had slunk back to his earth, They kept the great traditions of the pack, Staunch-hearted through the hunt, as they were born, These hounds that England suckled at the birth.

Reginald McIntosh Cleveland

BRITISH MERCHANT SERVICE

Oh, down by Millwall Basin as I went the other day, I met a skipper that I knew, and to him I did say: "Now what's the cargo, Captain, that brings you up this way?"

"Oh, I've been up and down (said he) and round about also.... From Sydney to the Skagerack, and Kiel to Callao.... With a leaking steam-pipe all the way to Californ-i-o....

"With pots and pans and ivory fans and every kind of thing, Rails and nails and cotton bales, and sewer pipes and string.... But now I'm through with cargoes, and I'm here to serve the King!

"And if it's sweeping mines (to which my fancy somewhat leans) Or hanging out with booby-traps for the skulking submarines, I'm here to do my blooming best and give the beggars beans!

"A rough job and a tough job is the best job for me, And what or where I don't much care, I'll take what it may be, For a tight place is the right place when it's foul weather at sea!"

* * * * *

There's not a port he doesn't know from Melbourne to New York; He's as hard as a lump of harness beef, and as salt as pickled pork.... And he'll stand by a wreck in a murdering gale and count it part of his work!

He's the terror of the fo'c's'le when he heals its various ills With turpentine and mustard leaves, and poultices and pills.... But he knows the sea like the palm of his hand, as a shepherd knows the hills.

He'll spin you yarns from dawn to dark--and half of 'em are true! He swears in a score of languages, and maybe talks in two! And ... he'll lower a boat in a hurricane to save a drowning crew.