The fore-royal furled, I pause and I stand,
Both feet on the yard, for a look around,
With eyes that ache for a sight of the land,
For we are homeward bound.
Like a bowl of silver the ocean lies,
Untouched by the fret of a single sail,
And over its edge the billows uprise
And slide before the gale.
I see, close beneath me, the garn's'l bulge,
And half of the tops'l swollen and round
Swells out above, where the bunts divulge
The fores'l's snowy mound.
With a fill and a flap the jibs respond,
As she rolls a-weather, then rolls a-lee,
And her bone as she leaps is thrown beyond

The next o'ertaken sea.
And the hull beneath in its foamy ring
Is narrowed in by the spread of sail,
And the waves as they wash her seem to fling
Their heads above the rail.
And I hear the roar of the passing blast,
And the hiss and gush of the parted sea
Is mixed with the groan of the straining mast,
And the parrel's, che, che, che.
Of the weather deck where the old man strides,
From the break of the poop to the after-rail,
I can catch a glimpse, but all besides
Is hid by swelling sail.
For the wake abaft is shut behind,
Except when she yaws from her helm and throws;
Then like a green lane it seems to wind
Aheap with drifted snows.
But lo! as I gaze the weather clew
Of the topsail lifts to the watch's weight,
And the helmsman comes into perfect view,

And at his side the mate.
As I swing my eyes ahead again
For that one last look ere I drop below,
They catch as she lifts a grayish stain
Athwart the orange glow.
My heart leaps up at the welcome sight,
And I grasp the pole with a firmer hand,
And shading my eyes from the glancing light
Make sure that it is land.
It seems to dance, but I catch it still
As we lift to the sweep of a longer sea—
'Tis the windy top of a far-off hill
Whose shape is known to me.
Then I send a yell to the rolling deck,
And start all hands from their work below;
As I point with a rigid arm at the speck—
The cry comes back, "Land ho!"
And the mate looks up and gives a call,
The old man stops in his clock-like walk,
The watch lets up on the top-sail fall

And takes a spell of talk.
The skipper goes aft to the binnacle, where
He shapes his hand on the compass card,
And takes with a glance the bearing there,
Eying me on the yard.
And I stand with my right arm swinging out,
With a finger true on the dancing speck,
Until on my ears falls the ringing shout:

"All right! Lay down on deck!"