To a Merchant Sailor

Be yours the prudent sailing From harbor up to town, Your timid women wailing Whenever rain comes down; A mild and easy creeping From market-place to mart, A sound and dreamless sleeping,— Sign of a moral heart! Be yours the dreary climbing Of hemp and mesh and mast, And after proper priming Up to a Mate at last; Then years of grog-and-waters, Of starb’rd, luff, and lee, And seven sons and daughters In a shanty by the sea. And endless out-and-inning, And ceaseless back-and-forth, And toil that lacks the sinning To make the toiling worth; And never blood of human To paint your tarry hand,— And sorrow come o’ woman To meet you when you land. Be yours the feeble fighting That keeps the liver white, Your turn-the-other smiting That makes a mock of Fight;— A truce to your cautious guarding Of the bastions of the bay ... I sail to a wild bombarding Of the white walls of Cathay!