Sailors there are of the gentlest breed, Yet strong, like every goodly thing;
The discipline of arms refines, And the wave gives tempering. The damasked blade its beam can fling;
It lends the last grave grace:
The hawk, the hound, and sworded nobleman In Titian's picture for a king,
Are of hunter or warrior race.
In social halls a favored guest In years that follow victory won,
How sweet to feel your festal fame In woman's glance instinctive thrown: Repose is yours--your deed is known,
It musks the amber wine;
It lives, and sheds a light from storied days Rich as October sunsets brown,
Which make the barren place to shine.
But seldom the laurel wreath is seen Unmixed with pensive pansies dark;
There's a light and a shadow on every man Who at last attains his lifted mark-- Nursing through night the ethereal spark.
Elate he never can be;
He feels that spirit which glad had hailed his worth, Sleep in oblivion.--The
Glides white through the phosphorus sea.
