But not to take their old commands
Into the wind where water foams!
The captains leave; to helmless hands
Are fallen their houses on these sands;
Their old wives wither in the rooms.
Their children pause, with vision spent—
Dear folk! they dabble, and put away
The majesties of yesterday.
No vital pulse, no strong event,
Sweeps in to break their life's delay;
The steam-boat lands, leaves them each day
Contented with their discontent.
Where is the blood that loved the sea!
Though old sea-commerce be no more,
Shall children of the sea on shore
Sink dull with careless industry?
Those painted ships bold purpose bore,
And what great glorious sails they wore—
Pictures that shame posterity!
A NEW ENGLAND CHURCH
The white church on the hill
Looks over the little bay—
A beautiful thing on the hill
When the mist is gray;
[15]
