By Mrs. Lydia H. Sigourney
December 28, 1864. Vol. 1. No. 13. Page 1
I love my Country’s noble ships
That rules the watery plain,
And the unshrinking men who guide
Their progress o’er the maid.
How gallantly their streamers float.
How keen their lightning’s fly.
And braver hearts than these are found
Beat not beneath the sky.
White as the glancing sea-birds wing,
Their swelling sails expand.
Beside the bright Aegean Island.
Or green Formosa’s strand.
Or where the sparse Norwegian pine
A sudden summer shares,
Or Terra del Fuego’s torch
Amid the tempest glares.
Unmoved their trackless way they hold
Though vengeful Boreas roars,
And make their port ‘mid stranger’s coast
Or undiscovered shores.
Rude people, of a foreign speech,
Have heard their cheering cry,
With the ready tars’ reply.
The spices from the Indian realms,
The plant of China’s care,
The cane’s sweet blood from tropic vales
Yon merchant-vessels bear.
Wherever Commerce points his wand
They mount the crested waves,
And link together every sea,
This rolling globe that laves.
Still nearest to the Antarctic gate
Our daring seamen press,
Where storm-wrapped Nature thought to dwell
In hermit loneliness;
‘Whose masts are there, so white with frost.
Where fearful icebergs shine?’
My Country from her watch-tower looked,
And answered, --‘They are mine!’
My Country’s ships! With dauntless prow
The tossing deep they tread;
The pirates of the Libyan sands
Have felt their prowess dread,--
And the British lion’s lordly mane,
Their victor might confessed,
For well their nation’s faith and pride
They guard on Ocean’s breast.
When strong oppression fiercely frowns,
Her eagle rears her crest,
And means no other bird shall pluck
His pinions on his breast;
See!—brightly on the threatening cloud
Gleam out those stars of gold.
Hazzah!—for my dear Country’s ships,
And for her seamen bold.