Joys of the harvest/The tempest

THE TEMPEST.

CEase, rude Boreas, blust’ring railer,
list ye landmen unto me:
Mess-mates, hear a brother sailor,
sing the dangers of the sea.

From bounding billows first in motion,
where the distant whirlwinds rise,
To the tempest-troubled ocean,
when the seas contend with skies.

Hark! the boatswain hoarsely bawling,
by top-sail sheets and haulyards stand,
Down top-gallants, quick be hauling,
down your stay-sails, hand boys, hand.

Now it freshens, set the braces,
the lee top-sail sheets let go;
Luff, boys, luff, don’t make wry faces,
up your top-sails nimbly clew.

Now all you on down-beds sporting,
fondly lock’d ’twixt beauty’s arms,
Fresh enjoyment, wanting courting,
safe from all but love’s alarms.

Around us roars the tempest louder;
think what fears our minds enthral:
Harder yet, it yet blows harder,
now again the boatswain’s call.

The topsail-yards point to the wind, boys,
see all clear to reef each course;
Let the sore-sheet go, don’t mind, boys,
tho’ the weather should be worse;

Fore and aft the spritsail-yard get,
reef the mizzen, see all clear;
Hands up, each preventure brace set,
man the fore-yard ; cheer, lads, cheer.

Now the dreadful thunders roaring,
peals on peals contending clash,
On our heads fierce rain falls pouring,
in our eyes blue lightning flash.

One wide water all around us,
all above but one black sky!
Diff'rent deaths at once surround us,
Hark! what means yon dreadful cry?

The foremast's gone, cries ev'ry tongue out,
o’er the lee, twelve foot ’bove deck!
A leak beneath the chestree’s sprung out!
call all hands to clear the wreck.

Quick the laniards cut to pieces,
come, my hearts, be stout and bold;
Plumb the well, the leak increases,
four feet water’s in the hold!

While o'er the ship the wild waves beating,
we for wives and children mourn:
Alas! from them there’s no retreating,
alas! to them there’s no return!

Still the leak is gaining on us,
both chain pumps are choak’d below;
Heav’n have mercy here upon us!
only He can save us now.

On the lee-beem is the land, boys,
let the guns o’er board be thrown;
To the pumps come ev’ry hand, boys,
see! her mizzen mast is gone.

The leak we’ve found, it cannot pour fast,
we’ve lighten’d her a foot or more;
Then up and rig a jury foremast,
she's tight, she’s tight, boys, we’re off shore.

Now, one, more, on joys we’re thinking,
since kind fortune sav’d our lives:
Come, the cann boys, let’s be drinking,
to our sweet-hearts, and our wives.

Fill it up, about ship wheel it,
close to the lips the brimmer join.
Where’s the tempest now? who feels it,
none;—our danger’s drown’d in wine.