They sailed, and sailed, as winds might blow,
  Until at last the blanched mate said: 
“Why, now, not even God would know
  Should I and all my men fall dead. 
These very winds forget their way,
  For God from these dread seas has gone. 
Now speak, brave Admiral, speak and say”—­
  He said, “Sail on! sail on! and on!”

They sailed.  They sailed.  Then spake the mate: 
  “This mad sea shows its teeth to-night. 
He curls his lips, he lies in wait
  With lifted teeth as if to bite! 
Brave Admiral, say but one good word: 
  What shall we do when hope is gone?”
The words leapt like a leaping sword,
  “Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!”

Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck,
  And peered through darkness.  Ah, that night
Of all dark nights!  And then a speck—­
  A light!  A light!  A light!  A light! 
It grew, a starlit flag unfurled! 
  It grew to be Time’s burst of dawn,
He gained a world; he gave that world
  Its grandest lesson:  “On! sail on!”

JOAQUIN MILLER.

* * * * *

MY LAST DUCHESS.

FERRARA.

That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive.  I call
That piece a wonder, now; Fra Pandolf’s hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands. 
Will’t please you sit and look at her?  I said. 
“Fra Pandolf” by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so, not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus.  Sir, ’twas not
Her husband’s presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess’ cheek:  perhaps
Fra Pandolf chanced to say, “Her mantle laps
Over my Lady’s wrist too much,” or “Paint
Must never hope to reproduce the faint
Half-flush that dies along her throat;” such stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough
For calling up that spot of joy.  She had
A heart—­how shall I say?—­too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed; she liked whate’er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere
Sir, ’twas all one!  My favor at her breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
She rode with round the terrace—­all and each
Would draw from her alike the approving speech,
Or blush, at least.  She thanked men,—­good! but thanked
Somehow—­I know not how—­as if she ranked
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name
With anybody’s gift.  Who’d stoop to blame
This sort of trifling?  Even had you skill
In speech—­(which I have not)—­to make your will