ROBERT BRIDGES
843 A Passer-by
\ T THITHER, O splendid ship, thy white sails crowding, W Leaning across the bosom of the urgent West, That fcarest nor sea rising, nor sky clouding,
Whither away, fair rover, and what thy quest ?
Ah' soon, when Winter has all our vales opprest, When skies aie cold and misty, and hail is hurling,
Wilt thou glide on the blue Pacific, or rest In a summer haven asleep, thy white sails furling.
��I there before thee, in the country that well thou knowest, Already arrived am inhaling the odorous air.
I watch thcc enter unerringly where thou goest, And anchor queen of the strange shipping there, Thy sails for awnings spread, thy masts bare:
Nor is aught from the foaming reef to the snow-capp'd
grandest Peak, that is over the feathery palms, more fair
Than thou, so upright, so stately and still thou standest.
��And yet, O splendid ship, unhail'd and nameless,
I know not if, aiming a fancy, I rightly divine That thou hast a purpose joyful, a courage blameless,
Thy port assured in a happier land than mine.
But for all I have given thee, beauty enough is thine, As thou, aslant with trim tackle and shrouding,
From the proud nostril curve of a prow's line In the offing scatterest foam, thy white sails crowding.
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