Volume Ii Part 6 (1/2)

CAS. Have you not love enough to bear with me, When that rash humor which my mother gave me, Makes me forgetful?

BRU. Yes, Ca.s.sius; and from henceforth, When you are over-earnest with your Brutus, He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so.

SHAKESPEARE.

THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR.

I.

Come, see the Dolphin's anchor forged; 'tis at a white heat now; The bellows ceased, the flames decreased; though on the forge's brow The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound; And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round, All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare; Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windla.s.s there.

II.

The windla.s.s strains the tackle chains, the black mound heaves below, And red and deep a hundred veins burst out at every throe; It rises, roars, rends all outright--O Vulcan, what a glow!

'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright; the high sun s.h.i.+nes not so: The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery, fearful show;

III.

The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy, lurid row Of smiths, that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe; As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing monster slow Sinks on the anvil--all about the faces fiery grow-- ”Hurrah!” they shout--”leap out!--leap out!” bang, bang, the sledges go.

IV.

Leap out, leap out, my masters! leap out and lay on load!

Let's forge a goodly anchor, a bower, thick and broad For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode, And I see the good s.h.i.+p riding, all in a perilous road; The low reef roaring on her lee, the roll of ocean poured From stem to stern, sea after sea, the main-mast by the board;

V.

The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats stove at the chains; But courage still, brave mariners, the bower yet remains, And not an inch to flinch he deigns save when ye pitch sky-high.

Then moves his head, as though he said, ”Fear nothing--here am I!”

VI.

Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand keep time, Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's chime; But while ye swing your sledges, sing, and let the burden be, The anchor is the anvil king, and royal craftsmen we.

VII.

Strike in, strike in; the sparks begin to dull their rustling red; Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will soon be sped; Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery, rich array, For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay; Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry craftsmen here, For the yeo-heave-o, and the heave away, and the sighing seaman's cheer.

VIII.

In livid and obdurate gloom, he darkens down at last, A shapely one he is and strong, as e'er from cat was cast.

A trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou had'st life like me, What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the deep-green sea!

IX.

O deep-sea-diver, who might then behold such sights as thou?

The h.o.a.ry monster's palaces! methinks what joy 'twere now To go plump, plunging down amid the a.s.sembly of the whales, And feel the churned sea round me boil beneath their scourging tails!