Still onward, fair the breeze, nor rough the surge,
The blue waves sport around the stern they urge;
Far on the horizon's verge appears a speck—
A spot—a mast—a sail—an armed deck! 1650
Their little bark her men of watch descry,
And ampler canvas woos the wind from high;
She bears her down majestically near,
Speed on her prow, and terror in her tier;
A flash is seen—the ball beyond their bow
Booms harmless hissing to the deep below.
Uprose keen Conrad from his silent trance,
A long, long absent gladness in his glance;
" 'Tis mine—my blood-red flag—again—again—
"I am not all deserted on the main!" 1660
They own the signal, answer to the hail.
Hoist out the boat at once, and slacken sail.
" 'Tis Conrad!—Conrad!" shouting from the deck,
Command nor duty could their transport check!
With light alacrity and gaze of pride.
They view him mount once more his vessel's side;
A smile relaxing in each rugged face,
Their arms can scarce forbear a rough embrace.