He launched them well.  But shall the New
Redeem the pledge the Old Year made,
Or prove a self-asserting heir? 
But healthy hearts few qualms invade: 
By shot-chests grouped in bays ’tween guns
The gossips chat, the grizzled, sea-beat ones.

And boyish dreams some graybeards blab: 
“To sea, my lads, we go no more
Who share the Acapulco prize;
We’ll all night in, and bang the door;
Our ingots red shall yield us bliss: 
Lads, golden years begin to-night with this!”

  Released from deck, yet waiting call,
Glazed caps and coats baptized in storm,
A watch of Laced Sleeves round the board
Draw near in heart to keep them warm: 
“Sweethearts and wives!” clink, clink, they
    meet,
And, quaffing, dip in wine their beards of
    sleet. 
“Ay, let the star-light stay withdrawn,
So here her hearth-light memory fling,
So in this wine-light cheer be born,
And honor’s fellowship weld our ring—­
Honor! our Admiral’s aim foretold: 

A tomb or a trophy, and lo, ’t is a trophy and
    gold!”
  But he, a unit, sole in rank,
Apart needs keep his lonely state,
The sentry at his guarded door
Mute as by vault the sculptured Fate;
Belted he sits in drowsy light,
And, hatted, nods—­the Admiral of the White.

He dozes, aged with watches passed—­
Years, years of pacing to and fro;
He dozes, nor attends the stir
In bullioned standards rustling low,
Nor minds the blades whose secret thrill
Perverts overhead the magnet’s Polar will:—­

LESS heeds the shadowing three that play
And follow, follow fast in wake,
Untiring wing and lidless eye—­
Abreast their course intent they take;
Or sigh or sing, they hold for good
The unvarying flight and fixed inveterate
    mood.

  In dream at last his dozings merge,
In dream he reaps his victor’s fruit; The Flags-o’-the-Blue, the Flags-o’-the-Red, Dipped flags of his country’s fleets salute His Flag-o’-the-White in harbor proud—­ But why should it blench?  Why turn to a
    painted shroud?

The hungry seas they hound the hull,
The sharks they dog the haglets’ flight;
With one consent the winds, the waves
In hunt with fins and wings unite,
While drear the harps in cordage sound
Remindful wails for old Armadas drowned.

Ha—­yonder! are they Northern Lights? 
Or signals flashed to warn or ward? 
Yea, signals lanced in breakers high;
But doom on warning follows hard: 
While yet they veer in hope to shun,
They strike! and thumps of hull and heart are
    one.

But beating hearts a drum-beat calls
And prompt the men to quarters go;
Discipline, curbing nature, rules—­
Heroic makes who duty know: 
They execute the trump’s command,
Or in peremptory places wait and stand.

  Yet cast about in blind amaze—­
As through their watery shroud they peer: 
“We tacked from land:  then how betrayed? 
Have currents swerved us—­snared us here?” None heed the blades that clash in place Under lamps dashed down that lit the
    magnet’s case.