The Aged Pilot Man

On the Erie Canal, it was,
     All on a summer’s day,
I sailed forth with my parents
     Far away to Albany.

From out the clouds at noon that day
     There came a dreadful storm,
That piled the billows high about,
     And filled us with alarm.

A man came rushing from a house,
     Saying, “Snub up* your boat I pray,
Snub up your boat, snub up, alas,
     Snub up while yet you may.”

Our captain cast one glance astern,
     Then forward glanced he,
And said, “My wife and little ones
     I never more shall see.”

Said Dollinger the pilot man,
     In noble words, but few,—
“Fear not, but lean on Dollinger,
     And he will fetch you through.”

The boat drove on, the frightened mules
     Tore through the rain and wind,
And bravely still, in danger’s post,
     The whip-boy strode behind.

“Come ’board, come ’board,” the captain cried,
     “Nor tempt so wild a storm;"
But still the raging mules advanced,
     And still the boy strode on.

Then said the captain to us all,
     “Alas, ’tis plain to me,
The greater danger is not there,
     But here upon the sea.

“So let us strive, while life remains,
     To save all souls on board,
And then if die at last we must,
     Let .  .  .  .  I cannot speak the word!”

Said Dollinger the pilot man,
     Tow’ring above the crew,
“Fear not, but trust in Dollinger,
     And he will fetch you through.”

“Low bridge!  low bridge!” all heads went down,
     The laboring bark sped on;
A mill we passed, we passed church,
     Hamlets, and fields of corn;
And all the world came out to see,
     And chased along the shore
Crying, “Alas, alas, the sheeted rain,
     The wind, the tempest’s roar!
Alas, the gallant ship and crew,
     Can nothing help them more?”

And from our deck sad eyes looked out
     Across the stormy scene:
The tossing wake of billows aft,
     The bending forests green,
The chickens sheltered under carts
     In lee of barn the cows,
The skurrying swine with straw in mouth,
     The wild spray from our bows!

               “She balances!
               She wavers!
Now let her go about!
     If she misses stays and broaches to,
We’re all"—then with a shout,
               “Huray!  huray!
               Avast!  belay!
               Take in more sail!
               Lord, what a gale!
Ho, boy, haul taut on the hind mule’s tail!”

“Ho!  lighten ship!  ho!  man the pump!
     Ho, hostler, heave the lead!”
“And count ye all, both great and small,
     As numbered with the dead:
For mariner for forty year,
     On Erie, boy and man,
I never yet saw such a storm,
     Or one’t with it began!”

So overboard a keg of nails
     And anvils three we threw,
Likewise four bales of gunny-sacks,
     Two hundred pounds of glue,
Two sacks of corn, four ditto wheat,
     A box of books, a cow,
A violin, Lord Byron’s works,
     A rip-saw and a sow.

A curve!  a curve!  the dangers grow!
Hard-a-port, Dol!—hellum-a-lee!
     Haw the head mule!—the aft one gee!
Luff!—bring her to the wind!”

“A quarter-three!—’tis shoaling fast!
     Three feet large!—t-h-r-e-e feet!—
Three feet scant!” I cried in fright
     “Oh, is there no retreat?”

Said Dollinger, the pilot man,
     As on the vessel flew,
“Fear not, but trust in Dollinger,
     And he will fetch you through.”

A panic struck the bravest hearts,
     The boldest cheek turned pale;
For plain to all, this shoaling said
A leak had burst the ditch’s bed!
And, straight as bolt from crossbow sped,
Our ship swept on, with shoaling lead,
     Before the fearful gale!

“Sever the tow-line!  Cripple the mules!”
     Too late!  There comes a shock!
Another length, and the fated craft
     Would have swum in the saving lock!

Then gathered together the shipwrecked crew
     And took one last embrace,
While sorrowful tears from despairing eyes
     Ran down each hopeless face;
And some did think of their little ones
     Whom they never more might see,
And others of waiting wives at home,
     And mothers that grieved would be.

But of all the children of misery there
     On that poor sinking frame,
But one spake words of hope and faith,
     And I worshipped as they came:
Said Dollinger the pilot man,—
     (O brave heart, strong and true!)—
“Fear not, but trust in Dollinger,
     For he will fetch you through.”

Lo!  scarce the words have passed his lips
     The dauntless prophet say’th,
When every soul about him seeth
     A wonder crown his faith!

For straight a farmer brought a plank,—
     (Mysteriously inspired)—
And laying it unto the ship,
     In silent awe retired.

Then every sufferer stood amazed
     That pilot man before;
A moment stood.  Then wondering turned,
     And speechless walked ashore.


*The customary canal technicality for ‘tie up.’

Warm Summer Sun

          after Robert Richardson

Warm summer sun,
    Shine kindly here,
Warm southern wind,
    Blow softly here.
Green sod above,
    Lie light, lie light.
Good night, dear heart,
    Good night, good night.

The Fairy Tree of Domremy



     Now what has kept your leaves so green,
     Arbre Fee de Bourlemont?

     The children's tears! They brought each grief,
     And you did comfort them and cheer
     Their bruised hearts, and steal a tear
     That, healed, rose a leaf.

     And what has built you up so strong,
     Arbre Fee de Bourlemont?

     The children's love! They've loved you long
     Ten hundred years, in sooth,
     They've nourished you with praise and song,
     And warmed your heart and kept it young—
     A thousand years of youth!

     Bide always green in our young hearts,
     Arbre Fee de Bourlemont!
     And we shall always youthful be,
     Not heeding Time his flight;
     And when, in exile wand'ring, we
     Shall fainting yearn for glimpse of thee,
     Oh, rise upon our sight!

Ode to Stephen Dowling Bots, Dec'd.

And did young Stephen sicken,
    And did young Stephen die?
And did the sad hearts thicken,
    And did the mourners cry?

No; such was not the fate of
    Young Stephen Dowling Bots;
Though sad hearts round him thickened,
    'Twas not from sickness' shots.

No whooping-cough did rack his frame,
    Nor measles drear, with spots;
Not these impaired the sacred name
    Of Stephen Dowling Bots.

Despised love struck not with woe
    That head of curly knots,
Nor stomach troubles laid him low,
    Young Stephen Dowling Bots.

O no. Then list with tearful eye,
    Whilst I his fate do tell.
His soul did from this cold world fly,
    By falling down a well.

They got him out and emptied him;
    Alas it was too late;
His spirit was gone for to sport aloft
    In the realms of the good and great.