I love to see them, laden deep,
Come steaming in from ports afar,
And, slipping past the light-ship, creep
With watchful steps across the bar,
Mauled by the hands of tide and time,
All grimy with their grimy coals,
Their funnels white with salty rime,
And smoky rings about their poles.
Look, now, along the Gedney lane,
With pushing bows comes slowly through
A West of England cargo wain,
With banded stack and star of blue.
There is no beauty in her form;
But when has simple beauty paid
In vessel destined to perform

As Cinderella to the trade?
Go, let her haughty sisters flaunt
Their sightly stems and graceful sheers;
But let her best, her only vaunt,
Be that she is as she appears—
A thing that men have framed to bear
Their merchandise at cheapest rates,
That's safe to pay a pound a share,
And more when there's a boom in freights;
A monster whelped of monster age—
An age that thinks but cannot feel—
Whose Bible is the balanced page,
Whose gods are gods of steam and steel.
In her I love the useful thing—
In her I hate the sailless mast;
For I am one who cares to sing
The glories of the steamless past.
I feel the spirit of the age—
The master splendor of its span—
But make no common with the rage

That lifts the thing above the man.
But useless this—we've learned to make
The word mechanic fit a song;
So let us watch that ship and take
Her picture as she jogs along.
The house-flag hoist; the ensign spread;
The tackles rove; the booms atop;
The deck-gang busy on the head;
The anchor ready for the drop.
Though from this outlook men appear
No bigger than a dancing midge,
I see the pilot standing near
The skipper on the upper bridge.
The telegraph is set "stand by";
The oldest hand is at the wheel;
And down below with watchful eye
The Chief awaits the warning peal.
The engines hiss; the 'scape-pipe roars;
The firemen spread the dusty slack,
And sternward from her funnel pours

A cloud that lingers in her track.
The Hook is past, the buoy abeam;
Then slowly to her helm she turns,
And getting confidence and steam
At full speed up the bay she churns.
Her lean hull shrinks, her spars grow short,
Her trailing flag is scarcely seen,
As slipping past the granite fort
She drops her hook off Quarantine.
And we who watch her turn away
And talk of ships and other things,
The present and the future day,
And what the world will do with wings.
How men will stir with busy hum
The upper main, by wake untraced,
And how the ocean will become

Again a sailless, shipless waste.