Sailors there are of gentlest breed,
Yet strong, like every goodly thing;
The discipline of arms refines,
And the wave gives tempering.
The damasked blade its beam can fling;
It lends the last grave grace:
The hawk, the hound, and sworded nobleman
In Titian's picture for a king,
Are of Hunter or warrior race.
In social halls a favored guest
In years that follow victory won,
How sweet to feel your festal fame,
In woman's glance instinctive thrown:
Repose is yours — your deed is known,
It musks the amber wine;
It lives, and sheds a litle from storied days
Rich as October sunsets brown,
Which make the barren place to shine.
But seldom the laurel wreath is seen
Unmixed with pensive pansies dark;
There's a light and a shadow on every man
Who at last attains his lifted mark —
Nursing through night the ethereal spark.
Elate he never can be;
He feels that spirits which glad had hailed his worth,
Sleep in oblivion.— The shark
Glides white through the prosphorus sea.