Poems (Dorr)/The Lady of the Prow
THE LADY OF THE PROW
BERMUDA, MAY, 1383
The salt tides ebb, the salt tides flow,From the near isles the soft airs blow;From leagues remote, with roar and din,Over the reefs the waves rush in;The wild white breakers foam and fret,Day follows day, stars rise and set;Yet, grandly poised, as calm and fairAs some proud spirit of the air,Unmoved she lifts her radiant brow—She, the White Lady of the Prow!
The winds blow east, the winds blow west,From woodlands low to the eagle's nest;The winds blow north, the winds blow south.To steal the sweets from the lily's mouth!We come and go; we spread our sailsLike sea-gulls to the favoring gales;Or, soft and slow, our oars we dipUnder the lee of the stranded ship.Yet little recks she when or how,The grand White Lady of the Prow.
We laugh, we love, we smile, we sigh,But never she heeds as we glide by—Never she cares for our idle waysNor turns from the brink of the world her gaze! What does she see when her steadfast eyesPeer into the sunset mysteries,And all the secrets of time and spaceSeem unfolded before her face?What does she hear when, pale and calm,She lists for the great sea's evening psalm?
Speak, Lady, speak! Thy sealéd lip,Thou fair white spirit of the ship,Could tell such tales of high emprise,Of valorous deeds and counsels wise!What prince shall rouse thee from thy trance,And meet thy first revealing glance,Or what Pygmalion from her sleepBid Galatea wake and weep?The wave's wild passion stirs thee not—Oh, is thy life's long love forgot?
How canst thou bear this trancèd calmBy sunlit isles of bloom and balm—Thou who hast sailed the utmost seas,Empress alike of wave and breeze;Thou who hast swept from pole to pole,Where the great surges swell and roll;Breasted the billows white with wrath,Rode in the tempest's fiery path,And proudly borne to waiting handsThe glorious spoil of farthest lands?
How canst thou bear this silence, deepAnd tranquil as an infant's sleep—Thou who hast heard above thy headThe white sails sing with wings outspread;Thou whose strong soul has thrilled to feelThe swift rush of the ploughing keel, The dash of waves, and the wild uproarOf ocean lashed from shore to shore?How canst thou bear this changeless rest,Thou who hast made the world thy quest?
O Lady of the stranded ship,Once more our lingering oars we dipIn the clear blue that round thee lies,Fanned by the airs of Paradise!Farewell! farewell! But oft when dayOn our far hill-tops dies away,And night's cool winds the pine-trees bow,Our eyes will see thee, even as now,Waiting—a spirit pale and calm—To hear the great sea's evening psalm!