68
THE SEVEN SEAS
The sea-pull drew them side by side, gunnel to gunnel laid,
And they felt the sheerstrakes pound and clear, but never a word was said.
Then Reuben Paine cried out again before his spirit passed:
'Have I followed the sea for thirty years to die in the dark at last?
'Curse on her work that has nipped me here with a shifty trick unkind—
'I have gotten my death where I got my bread, but I dare not face it blind.
'Curse on the fog! Is there never a wind of all the winds I knew
'To clear the smother from off my chest, and let me look at the blue?'
The good fog heard—like a splitten sail, to left and right she tore,
And they saw the sun-dogs in the haze and the seal upon the shore.
