230 WHITTIER
And they talk of their ventures lost or won, And their talk is ever and ever the same, While they drink the red wine of Tarragon, From the cellars of some Spanish Don Or convent set on flame.
Restless at times, with heavy strides
He paces his parlour to and fro; He is like a ship that at anchor rides, And swings with the rising and falling tides, And tugs at her anchor-tow.
Voices mysterious far and near,
Sound of the wind and sound of the sea, Are calling and whispering in his ear, 'Simon Danz! Why stayest thou here? Come forth and follow me ! '
So he thinks he shall take to the sea again
For one more cruise with his buccaneers, To singe the beard of the King of Spain, And capture another Dean of Jaen
And sell him in Algiers.
Longfellow,
���UP from the meadows rich with corn, Clear in the cool September morn,
The clustered spires of Frederick stand Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.
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