POETRY.
THE HULK IN THE ESTUARY. HE sprawls, a stranded hulk, along the mud, Undeoked, with gaping sides and broken back, Half-way between the reach of highest flood— Which far on either hand Makes headway up the slack Of slimy channels when the full moon calls— And that soiled limbo, neither sea nor land, Whereto the last reluctant ebb-wave crawls.
All day above the dismal fiats the gulls Hover and sweep with glint of snowy wings; Or crowd with raucous laughter round the pools Where, drifted by the tide, Lie stranded obscene things, Cast forth in darkness from the up-stream town, From which the lustml water turns aside Till storm shall give it strength to wash them down.
He sees upon the ebb, with wattage slow, .
The outbound ships—a younger, mightier brood--a Down to their business on the great deep go, And watches the return, Upon the evening flood, Of vessels,,gliding laden to the quays, Remotely touched by disregard and stern With the high sternness of the'outer seas.
Yet, stranded on the mud7---a sorry shape Stained red by rust, blackened as though by flame— He still, day gone, has power to make escape From that which in the light Establishes his shame, And with immitigable spirit bears The scorn of all things living, since at night His commerce is with life surpassing theirs.
For then, when secretly, with stifled sighs, And eager speech suppressed as though for shame, The waters in the dreary channels rise And pitifully steal Through his poor broken frame, And bathe each gaping wound, each rueful scar, In dream he feels the waves beneath his keel, And once again puts out across the bar.
Erelong from off the MOOR the black clouds. drift, And lot a vast sky-bounded ocean space, O'er which with smothered bows and high uplift Of canvas silvery white He speeds before the race Of constant trade winds down the world's convex Of purple seas, while in the sudden light, With shadows dappled, gleam his spotless decks.
Ah, happy he, assured upon his quest That somewhere, washed by that uncharted flood, Lie blissful realms of time still unpossessed I What though he claims our tears, Unmasted on the mud By daylight, if, with spread of shadowy sail, Adventurously bound all night he steers Through magic seas beyond all mortal hail And empty though he lies—empty no less When up the channels thrust the morning tides And deepen round him till at last they press With muffled shocks and jars Through his decrepit sides— The midnight wave that floods his undecked hold, Gathering the largess of the quiet stars, Freights him with rare imponderable gold.
W. G. HoLz.
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