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OUR SHIPS.
13
The white bear, on his field of ice
Hath seen their signals tossed,
And the great whale,—old Ocean's king,
Doth know them to his cost.
The spices from the Indian isles,
The plant of China's care,
The cane's sweet blood from tropic climes
Their merchant-vessels bear,
Wherever Commerce points his wand,
They mount the crested waves,
And link together every sea
The rolling globe that laves.
Still nearest to the Antarctic gale
Our daring seamen press,
Where storm-wrapped Nature thought to dwell
In hermit-loneliness;
"Whose masts are these, so white with frost,
Where fearful icebergs shine?"
My country from her watch-tower looked
And answered,—"They are mine!"
- 2*
