Page:The poems of Richard Watson Gilder, Gilder, 1908.djvu/114

Till it cut the waves flat
Like the brim of your hat.
There was no sea about,
But it blew straight out
Till the ship lurcht over;
But 't was quick to recover,
When, all of a stroke,
The hurricane broke.
Great heavens! how it roared,
And how the rain poured;
The thirty-fathom chain
Dragged out all in vain.
"What next?" the captain cried
To the mate by his side;
Then Tip Ryder he replied:
"Fetch the ax—no delay—
Cut the mainmast away;
If you want to save the ship
Let the mainmast rip!"
But another said, "Wait!"
And they did—till too late.
On her beam-ends she blew,
In the sea half the crew—
Struggling back through the wrack,
There to cling day and night.
Not a sail heaves in sight;
And, the worst, one in thirst
(Knows no better, the poor lad!)
Drinks salt water and goes mad.
⁠Eighty hours blown and tost,
Five good sailors drowned and lost,
And the rest brought to shore;

—Some to sail as before;