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THE WHALER'S SONG.
141
Take good heed, my hearts of oak,
Lest her terrible flukes, as she tortured lies,
Wildly hurl us to the skies:
But see! the pride of her strength is broke,
Heavy she lies, as a mass of lead,
The mighty monarch-whale is dead!
Row! Row! Row!
In our ship she must go,
Changed by fire to a liquid stream,
Over the broad Pacific's swell,
Round Cape Horn, where the tempests dwell,
Many a night and many a day,
Home with us, she must sail away,
Till we joyful hail once more,
Old Nantucket's treeless shore.
There, when the fair with brilliant eyes
In evening circles sit,
While the shining needle plies
Or the merry laugh replies
To pleasant wit,
13
