The Story
of Saville
III.
Not amid volleying thunder, ’mid smoke-wreaths murkily dim,
Not in the fury of battle one writeth a battle hymn,
Nor chanteth of garlanded Autumn’s purple and golden store,
Foison of fruit and grain and nut, till harvesting days be o’er,
And not of the glorious tempest’s rage while yet the shuddering ship
Is laboring through the surges with headlong hurricane dip,
And black the skyline swings and swirls to a tremble of silver foam,
Not of the creamy blossomy death one singeth till safe at home—
Yet oft a mariner, rugged and bronzed, who joys in the tales he tells
Of plumy palm trees, brown bright maids, pink corals, and filagreed shells,
And perils of rocks, and wondrous ’scapes from famine and fever hells,
Will mark his listeners’ starting eyes, happy to hold them thrall,
Yet murmurs, “Well, thank God I am here, safe sheltered among you all—
