He cannot pace the street about,
But they stand before his eyes!

The more he shuns them, the more proud
And beautiful they rise.

He turns his head, but in his ear
The steady Trade-Winds run,
And in his eye the endless waves
Ride on into the sun.

His little child at evening said,
"Now tell us, dad, a tale

Of naked men that shoot with bows,
Tell of the spouting whale!"

He told old tales, his eyes were bright,
His wife looked up to see,

And smiled on him: but in the midst
He ended suddenly.

He bade his boys good-night, and kissed
And held them to his breast.
They wondered and were still, to feel
Their lips so fondly pressed.

He sat absorbed in silent gloom.
His wife lifted her head
From sewing, and stole up to him,
"What ails you, John?" she said.

He spoke no word. A silent tear
Fell softly down her cheek.

She knelt beside him, and his hand
Was on her forehead meek.

But even as his tender touch
Her dumb distress consoled,

The mighty waves danced in his eyes
And through the silence rolled.

There fell a soft November night,
Restless with gusts that shook
The chimneys, and beat wildly down
The flames in the chimney nook.

John Winter lay beside his wife,
'T was past the mid of night.
Softly he rose, and in dead hush
Stood stealthily upright.

Softly he came where slept his boys,
And kissed them in their bed;
One stretched his arms out in his sleep:
At that he turned his head.

And now he bent above his wife,
She slept a sleep serene,
Her patient soul was in the peace
Of breathing slumber seen.

At last, he kissed one aching kiss,
Then shrank again in dread,
And from his own home guiltily
And like a thief he fled.

But now with darkness and the wind
He breathes a breath more free,
And walks with calmer steps, like one
Who goes with destiny.

And see, before him the great masts
Tower with all their spars

Black on the dimness, soaring bold
Among the mazy stars.

In stormy rushings through the air
Wild scents the darkness filled,
And with a fierce forgetfulness
His drinking nostril thrilled.

He hasted with quick feet, he hugged
The wildness to his breast,

As one who goes the only way

To set his heart at rest.

When morning glimmered, a great ship
Dropt gliding down the shore.

John Winter coiled the anchor ropes

Among his mates once more.

Laurence Binyon.

Will Adams

[On April 12, 1600, a Dutch ship piloted by one William Adams, an Englishman, reached Japan. As the price of permission to build a factory at Firando, they were compelled to hand over Adams to the Tycoon, for whom he built the first Japanese fleet. He was treated with all honour, but never allowed to return to England. He is buried on the hillside of Hemimura, above the naval arsenal of Yokoska.]

N the hill of Hemimura, looking out across the

sea

O'er the dock-yards of Yokoska and the warships sailing free

'Midst the Shinto pennons streaming Lies Will Adams, still a-dreaming

Of the busy Port o' London and the Kentish wood and

lea.

He forgets the fleet he builded and the decks that once he trod,

That his grave's afar from England and his pall is alien sod,

That the incense-sticks are burning

And the praying-wheels a-turning

To the name of William Adams, Kentish sailorman and god.

So he drowses till the screaming of the sirens once again Calls him back to where beneath him, like mailed barons of the main,

Ride the warships; while the rattle

Of Dai Nippon's seaward battle

Rings and mingles through his dreaming like a distant song's refrain:

For whenas the great grey battleships roll down upon the foe,

Or when Togo's lean torpedo-boats charge shoreward through the snow,

When the giant shells are crashing

And the league-long searchlights flashing,

Then Will Adams sees the triumph of his toil of long ago.

J. H. Knight-Adkin.

The Sea Gipsy

AM fevered with the sunset,
I am fretful with the bay,
For the wander-thirst is on me
And my soul is in Cathay.

There's a schooner in the offing,
With her topsails shot with fire,
And my heart has gone aboard her
For the Islands of Desire.

I must forth again to-morrow!
With the sunset I must be
Hull down on the trail of rapture

In the wonder of the Sea.

Richard Hovey.

The Sands of Dee

MARY, go and call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home,

Across the sands of Dee;"

The western wind was wild and dank with foam,

And all alone went she.

The creeping tide crept up along the sand,

And o'er and o'er the sand,

And round and round the sand,

As far as eye could see.

The rolling mist came down, and hid the land:

And never home came she.