Poems (Curwen)/Our Pilots

by Annie Isabel Curwen

Our Pilots.

Poets of every age have sung the deeds of soldiers brave,
And told in glowing terms the acts of sailors on the wave,
But few have thought to sing the praise of this devoted band,
Who oft their hazardous calling ply, verily life in hand.

   Tides ebb and flow, ships come and go,
    And the pilot must be at his post,
   Lest haply some vessel near, finding no pilot, should steer
    On to the dangerous coast.

When tempests wild are raging, and seas run mountains high,
When other craft are hastening home, or to refuge nigh,
For him there's no returning when duty bids him stay,
E'en though the angry waters may claim him as their prey.

   Tides ebb and flow, ships come and go,
    And the pilot must be at his post,
   For when stormy winds roar, good ships drive ashore,
    And without him some would be lost.

When treacherous mists, descending, shroud sea and land in gloom,
And to the weary mariner's ear is borne the breakers' boom,
And rock, or shoal, or sand may prove a death-trap or a grave,
He hears the welcome "Ship ahoy!" and hails the pilot brave.

   Tides ebb and flow, ships come and go,
    And the pilot must be at his post,
   For rock, sand, and shoal, he knows one and all,
    And without him the ship would be lost.

Men think, when nights are dark and wild, of noble ships anear,
Laden with costly merchandise and precious lives—more dear;
But few e'er give a passing thought to him whose skilful hand
Pilots the vessel through perilous ways, and brings it safe to land.

   Tides ebb and flow, ships come and go,
    And the pilot must be at his post,
   With eye ever ready, nerve ever steady,
    Or the good ship might be lost.

When the sweet church bells are chiming, his anchor he must weigh,
For neither time nor tide will wait while the pilot goes to pray;
And at this festive season, when other homes are gay,
The pilot's home is cheerless, for father must away.

   Tides ebb and flow, ships come and go,
    And the pilot must be at his post;
   So o'er the harbour bar, we watch him sail afar,
    And nobody counts the cost.

And sometimes 'tis the pilot's lot to lose his life at sea,
Dying bravely at his post. Alas! that it should be.
But none would call him hero, although his life he gave,
Though he died at the post of duty, finding a watery grave.

   Tides ebb and flow, ships come and go,
    And the pilot must be at his post;
   Though death itself is nigh, he answers duty's cry,
    Lest the good ship should be lost.
···········
    Sing, aye sing, of the soldier's deeds,
     And tell the gallant sailor's story:
    But, when speaking of heroes of the wave,
    Tell of those trusty pilots brave,
     And give them their meed of glory!