“For nought,” said Tom, “is ever gained
  By sighs for what we lack;
Nor can it mend a vessel strained,
  To let our temper crack.

“And sure I am, the worst of storms,
  That any man should dread,
Is that which in the bosom forms,
  And musters to the head.”

Serene, and ever self-possessed,
  His mess-mates he would cheer,
And often put their fears to rest,
  When dangers gathered near.

If on the rocks the ship was cast,
  And surges swept the deck,
Tom Tar was ever found the last
  Who would forsake the wreck.

And when his only hat and shoes
  The waters plucked from him,
Why, these, he felt, were small to lose,
  Could he keep up and swim!

Then through the billows, foam, and spray,
  That rose on every hand,
He’d, somehow, always find a way
  Of getting safe to land.

The secret was, the fear and love
  Of Heaven had filled his soul: 
His trust was firm in One above,
  Howe’er the seas might roll.

And Tom had sailed to many a shore,
  And many a wonder seen: 
The stories he could tell would more
  Than fill a magazine.

He’d seen mankind in every state,
  Almost, that man can know;
But envied not the rich and great,
  Nor scorned the poor and low.

The monarch in his sight had stood,
  Superb, in glittering vest;
The savage, too, that roams the wood,
  In skins and feathers dressed.

The tribes of many an isle he knew;
  And beasts, and birds, and flowers,
And fruits, of many a shape and hue,
  In lands remote from ours.

He’d seen the wide-winged albatros
  Her breast in ocean lave;
And bold sea-lions, playing, toss
  Their heads above the wave.

He’d seen the dolphin, while his back
  Went flashing to the sun,
A swarm of flying fish attack,
  And swallow every one!

The porpoise and the spouting whale
  Had sported in his view;
And hungry sharks pursued his sail,
  As if they’d eat the crew.

And ever, when Tom Tar got home,
  The children, at their play,
Were glad to have the Sailor come,
  And greet them by the way.

Then, oft, some curious stone, or shell,
  The laughing girls and boys
Would find, upon their aprons fell,
  To put among their toys.

“These pearly shells,” said he, “I found
  Where gloomy waters roar: 
These polished stones, so smooth and round,
  Rough surges washed ashore.

“Though small to us a pebble seems,
  ’Tis made and marked by One,
Who gave the warmth, and lit the beams
  Of yon great shining sun.

“And when these pretty shells I find,
  Along the ocean strand,
Their beauteous finish brings to mind
  Their Maker’s perfect hand.

“When on the wildest shore I’m thrown
  And far from human eye,
I think of him who made the stone,
  And shell, and sea, and sky.