“All hands unmoor,” the hoarse-voiced boatswain cries,
And the rough tars stand to their posts. Some fling
The capstan bars around; a stout band plies
The windlass, while the whole in concert sing
“Ho cheerily!” as they heave, rending the skies
With their loud notes, till distant echoes ring
“Ho cheerily!” Meanwhile the rising sun
Looks forth and smiles on the long voyage begun.
The anchor’s weighed and shipped; but the white sails
Are flickering as the zephyr gently blows
Or dies away! Blow, blow, ye favouring gales,
And speed us onward to the land where grows
The lofty eucalyptus! New South Wales
Shall hail our vessel soon. See how she goes
As the breeze freshens up! Rio, farewell!
We hear the last toll of San Bento’s bell.
Don Pedro’s land recedes and disappears,
And all around a vast and shoreless sea
Rolls its white-crested waves. Six thousand years
These waves have rolled, since man began to be;
And save where some leviathan uprears
His huge form ‘mid their vast immensity,
Or solitary sail is seen, you can
Descry nought that reminds of life or man.
Man! self-styled lord of the creation! Man
Is here a very child! The unfettered Ocean
Owns not his power, nor calls him lord; nor can
Its proud waves learn to still their ceaseless motion
At his haughtiest command. The great divan
Of Emperors and Kings claims no devotion
From the deep sea. Here monarchs cease to reign,
Though fools may sing, “Britannia rules the Main.”
‘Tis a vast desert, where the wearied eye
Has nought to rest on but the wide expanse
Of endless waters, where the azure sky
Bounds the drear prospect, where, as you advance,
No new scenes upon on the view. Oh, I
Have gazed upon the deep, as in a trance,
And felt as if I lived myself alone,
And all mankind besides were dead and gone.
(John Dunmore Lang)
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