Page:A New Zealand verse (1906).pdf/124

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Ocean’s Own.
The moon lifts gold in the gloaming, The sun in the west sinks red,And birds of the sea pass roaming, But the Ocean’s Own lie dead.
Perchance as they lie they’re dreaming Of home and a childhood’s tuneThat rang through the storm-seas’ screaming And sobbed in the warm monsoon;Or maybe again they’re thrashing With spray on the high bridge-rail,And labouring engines clashing A dirge to the men who fail.The world passes on, forgetting, But, off in the ports, I knowThere’s many a brave heart fretting For the good, brave hearts laid low.
Their ships swept out on the noon-tides, And lonely their mast-head lightsWere quivering far, when the moon-tides Swam glittering through the nights;And strong where the storm-stars flicker They drove through the wash and roll,And ever their screws spun quicker When baulked of their distant goal.For the Ocean’s Own were roamers — By power of sail and steamThey swung on the long Cape combers, Or droned up the Hoogli’s stream.
The song that the surf is shouting Is meant for their ears aloneWho went to their work undoubting, And slaved at it, blood and bone.
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