The angel o’ the “brig” brings his prisoner up;
Then, steadied by his old Santa-Clara, a sup,
Heading all erect, the ranged assizes there,
Lo, Captain Turret, and under starred
    bunting,
(A florid full face and fine silvered hair,)
Gigantic the yet greater giant confronting.

Now the culprit he liked, as a tall captain can
A Titan subordinate and true sailor-man;
And frequent he’d shown it—­no worded
    advance,
But flattering the Finn with a well-timed glance. 
But what of that now?  In the martinet-mien
Read the Articles of War, heed the naval
    routine;
While, cut to the heart a dishonor there to win,
Restored to his senses, stood the Anak Finn;
In racked self-control the squeezed tears
    peeping,
Scalding the eye with repressed inkeeping. 
Discipline must be; the scourge is deemed due. 
But ah for the sickening and strange heart-
    benumbing,
Compassionate abasement in shipmates that view;
Such a grand champion shamed there succumbing! 
“Brown, tie him up.”—­The cord he brooked: 
How else?—­his arms spread apart—­never
    threaping;
No, never he flinched, never sideways he looked,
Peeled to the waistband, the marble flesh
    creeping,
Lashed by the sleet the officious winds urge.

In function his fellows their fellowship merge—­
The twain standing nigh—­the two boatswain’s
    mates,
Sailors of his grade, ay, and brothers of his
    mess. 
With sharp thongs adroop the junior one
    awaits
The word to uplift. 
              “Untie him—­so! 
Submission is enough, Man, you may go.” 
Then, promenading aft, brushing fat Purser
    Smart,
“Flog?  Never meant it—­hadn’t any heart. 
Degrade that tall fellow? “—­Such, wife, was he,
Old Captain Turret, who the brave wine could
    stow. 
Magnanimous, you think?—­But what does
    Dick see? 
Apron to your eye!  Why, never fell a blow;
Cheer up, old wifie, ’t was a long time ago.

But where’s that sore one, crabbed and-severe,
Lieutenant Lon Lumbago, an arch scrutineer? 
Call the roll to-day, would he answer—­Here!
When the Blixum’s fellows to quarters
    mustered
How he’d lurch along the lane of gun-crews
    clustered,
Testy as touchwood, to pry and to peer. 
Jerking his sword underneath larboard arm,
He ground his worn grinders to keep himself
    calm. 
Composed in his nerves, from the fidgets set
    free,
Tell, Sweet Wrinkles, alive now is he,
In Paradise a parlor where the even
    tempers be?

Where’s Commander All-a-Tanto? 
Where’s Orlop Bob singing up from below? 
Where’s Rhyming Ned? has he spun his last
    canto? 
Where’s Jewsharp Jim?  Where’s Ringadoon
    Joe? 
Ah, for the music over and done,
The band all dismissed save the droned
    trombone! 
Where’s Glenn o’ the gun-room, who loved
    Hot-Scotch—­
Glen, prompt and cool in a perilous watch? 
Where’s flaxen-haired Phil? a gray lieutenant? 
Or rubicund, flying a dignified pennant?