Poems (Cook)/Song of the Sea-Weed

by Eliza Cook

SONG OF THE SEA-WEED.

I am born in crystal bower
Where the despot hath no power
To trail and turn the oozy fern,
Or trample down the fair sea-flower.
I am born where human skill
Cannot bend me to its will;
None can delve about my root,
And nurse me for my bloom and fruit;
I am left to spread and grow
In my rifted bed below,
Till I break my slender hold,
 As the porpoise tumbleth o'er me;
And on I go now high—now low—
 With the ocean world before me.

I am nigh the stately ship
 Where she loiters in the calm;
While the south, like Love's own lip,
 Breathes a sweet and peaceful balm.
Plashing soft with gentle grace,
Round the hull I keep my place;
While the sailor, through the day,
 Leaneth o'er her side,
And idly watches me at play
 Upon the drowsy tide.
She is stanch and she is stout,
With chain and cable girt about;
But I'll match my tendrils fine
With her shrouds and halyard line.

Now the red flash breaks,
The thunder-volley shakes,
And billows boil with hissing coil,
Like huge snow-crested snakes.
 The mad winds roar,
 The rain sheets pour,
And screaming loud 'mid wave and cloud
 The white gulls soar.
Diving deep and tossing high,
Round that same ship, there am I;
Till at last I mount the mast,
In the tight reef hanging fast;
While the fierce and plunging sea
Boweth down the stout cross-tree;
Till the sharp and straining creak
Echoeth the tempest shriek.

Another peal! another flash!
Top-gallants start with snapping crash.
"Quick! quick! All hands!" one mighty sweep,
And giant guns are in the deep.
Hark! the heavy axe below
Whirls and rings with blow on blow;
And I feel the timber quiver,
Like a bulrush on a river.
Still I twine about the pine,
 Till a wild and bursting cry
Tells the fearful work is done;
—The ship leaps up—the mast is gone,
 And away with it go I.

Now I dance and dash again
Headlong through the howling main;
While the lightning groweth stronger,
And the thunder rolleth longer.
Now I feel a hard hand clutch me,
 With a wildly-snatching hold;
Who is he that dares to touch me,
 With a gripe so strong and bold!
Tis the sailor, young and brave,
Struggling o'er his yawning grave.
Does he think that he can cling
To the Sea-weed's mazy string?
Does he dream, with frenzied hope,
Of floating spar and saving rope?
He does, he does! but billows meet,
And form his close-wrapp'd winding-sheet;
While I mingle with the wreath
Of white foam gurgling through his teeth,
And twist and tangle in his locks;
 As the mountain waters lift him,
 And the frothy breakers drift him,
On the gray and iron rocks.

Again I mount my ocean steed,
 Rolling on with curbless pace;
Who will follow where I lead?
 Who will ride in such a race?
On I rush by raft and wreck,
By sinking keel and parting deck;
Now the lifeboat's side I'm lashing;
Now against the torn plank dashing;
Up I go—the flood is swelling
With richer foam and fiercer yelling—
My courser rears, and I am thrown
Upon the lighthouse topmost stone.
Rave on, ye waters—here I'll stay
Till storm and strife have pass'd away!

 

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Now I have taken my course to the shore,
 Where yellow sand covers the crystal and amber;
Serenely I dwell with the rosy-mouth'd shell,
 Where limpets are thick and the tiny crabs clamber.

A young child is roving, and soon he espies
 My rich, curling threads as they mount in the spray;
He steps 'mid the green stones, and eagerly cries,
 "Oh, that beautiful Sea-weed, I'll bear it away!"

All earnestly gazing, he stretches to reach,
But a swift-spreading wave has roll'd over the beach;
It hath carried me back from the sun-lighted strand,
And the young child beholds me, far, far from the land.

He runs through the ebb-surf, but vain the endeavour;
I am gone, my fair boy, I am gone, and for ever;
Thou wilt covet full many bright things,—but take heed
They elude not your grasp like the pretty Sea-weed.

 

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Now I am met in my wide career
 By the ice-pile driving fast;
A broad and sail-less boat rides near,
 And a lithe rope runneth past.

Hark, that plunge! 'who cometh here,
 With long and purple trail?
'Tis the Sea King pierced with the jagged spear,—
 The cleaving and furious whale.

He huggeth me tight in his downward flight;
 On his writhing fin I go:
While his blood pours out with torrent spout,
 And he gasps with snorting blow.

Weltering in his ocean halls,
 He dyeth the coral deeper;
And wallows against the weedy walls
 With the lunge of a frantic sleeper.

He hurls me off with floundering pang,
 I am caught on a glittering shrub;
And there I merrily dangle and hang
 O'er the head of the grampus' cub.

The starfish comes with his quenchless light,
 And a cheerful guest is he;
For he shineth by day and he shineth by night
 In the darkest and deepest sea.

I wind in his arms, and on we glide,
 Leagues and leagues afar;
Till we rest again where the dolphins hide,
 In the caverns roof'd with spar.

Gems of all hues for a king to choose,
 With coins and coffers, are round;
The wealth and weight of an Eastern freight
 In the Sea-weed's home are found.

Here are pearls for maiden's curls—
 Here is gold for man;
But the wave is a true and right safe bar,
 And its murmur a dreaded ban.

I revel and rove 'mid jewell'd sheen,
 Till the nautilus travels by;
And off with him I gaily swim,
 To look at the torrid sky.

I rise where the bark is standing still,
 In the face of a full, red sun;
While out of her seams, and over her beams,
 The trickling pitch-drops run.

Oh worse is the groan that breaketh there
 Than the burst of a drowning cry;
They have bread in store, and flesh to spare,
 But the water-casks are dry.

Many a lip is gaping for drink,
 And madly calling for rain;
And some hot brains are beginning to think
 Of a messmate's open'd vein.

Nautilus, nautilus, let us be gone;
For I like not this to look upon.

 

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 Now about the island bay,
 I am quietly at play;
 Now the fisher's skiff I'm round;
 Now I lave the rocky mound;
 Now I swiftly float aground,
Where the surge and pebbles rustle;
 Where young, naked feet tread o'er
 My dripping branches, to explore
For spotted egg and purple muscle.

The tide recedes—the wave comes not
To bear me from this barren spot.
Here I lie for many a day,
Crisp'd and shrivell'd in the ray;
Till I wither, shrink, and crack,
And my green stem turneth black.

See! there cometh sturdy men,
 But they wear no sailor blue;
No kerchief decks their tawny necks;
 They form no smart and gallant crew.
Hark! there cometh merry strains,
 'Tis not music that I know;
It does not tell of anchor chains,
 Blending with the "Yo, heave ho!"
'Tis my death-dirge they are singing,
And thus the lightsome troll is ringing.

 

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The Vraie the Vraie! oh! the Vraie shall be
 The theme of our chanting mirth;
For we come to gather the grass of the sea,
 To quicken the grain of the earth.
That grass it groweth where no man moweth;
 All thick, and rich, and strong:
And it meeteth our hand on the desolate strand,
 Ready for rake and prong.
So gather and carry; for oft we need
The nurturing help of the good Sea-weed.

The Vraie! the Vraie! come, take a farewell
 Of your boundless and billowy home;
No more will you dive in the fathomless cell,
 Or leap in the sparkling foam.
Far from the petrel, the gannet, and grebe,
 Thou shalt be scatter'd abroad;
And carefully strewn on the mountain glebe,
 To add to the harvest hoard.
The land must be till'd, the tiller must feed;
And the corn must be help'd by the good Sea-weed.

The Vraie! the Vraie! pile it on to the fire,
 Let it crackle and smoke in the wind;
And a smouldering heap of treasure we'll keep
 In the ashes it leaveth behind.
On to the furrow, on to the field;
 Dust to dust is the claim;
'Tis what the prince and pilgrim yield,
 And the Sea-weed giveth the same.
The land must be till'd, the tiller must feed;
But he'll mingle at last with the good Sea-weed.