The Life-Boat Poem by Alexander Anderson

The sea, as by some inner demon stung,
Hath burst its glassy prison, and on high
A thousand waves in black despair are flung
In foaming supplication to the sky.


They yawn with fangs half-hidden by the spray,
And hiss and roar with madness in their breath,
And, blind with hate, for ever seek their prey,
To drag it downward to their gulfs of death.


The winds are in high holiday; they shear
Their way through spray and cloud, and high and strong
Put forth their mighty strength until they bear
The billows downward as they roar along.


Between the waves there seethes a mimic hell,
Gaping with foam-flecked maw to swallow all—
For who can quench such thirst? or weave a spell
Over the anger of their carnival?


Lo, how they toss, as if from hand to hand,
That ship far out where help seems all in vain,
And thin white faces turning to the land
Whose only hope is to despair again.


Their ship is but a plaything for the sea,
A speck for winds to buffet and to toss—
Who will put out! although his life should be
Within his hand, to fling away like dross?


'Out with the life-boat! Willing hands are here,
Stout muscles, ay, and stouter hearts to fight,
Give way, give way, and with a voice of cheer,
We must save lives before the fall of night.'


Between them and the ship that staggers on,
The waves like liquid phalanxes of steel
Rise up to bar their way with hiss and moan,
Till the staunch life-boat shakes from deck to keel.


But still she cleaves her way through stormy rifts;
In front the swooping sea-gulls show her path,
Until she seems a speck that sinks and lifts
Amid a thousand howling gulfs of wrath.


And those who stand in horror on the shore,
Watching the hell of shaking darkness there,
Hear their hearts throb an answer to its roar,
Now touching hope and now again despair.


Will they come back? The moments lengthen out,
Until they seem like hours to those who wait.
At last that far-off speck has put about;
But who can say what yet shall be its fate?


The storm, as if unconscious of defeat,
Re-marshals all its seething ranks of waves,
And, led by shrieking winds with foam-hid feet,
Swoops on the staunch true hearts, and roars and raves.


But battling still with every wave that strives
To bear them back with rushing surge and sweep,
They gain the shore at last with human lives
Wrenched from the white teeth of the tigerish deep.


Brave hearts beneath rough bosoms! Well we knew
How ye would rise to God and Christ's own plan,
And stand heroic in the tasks ye do.
Grand is the sea, but grander still is man!