The ascending sun and weakened winds invite
To peaceful strife the seamen’s eager crowd;
They pile the slender spars with cloud on cloud
Or gleaming canvas, and drink in delight
As the keen racers strain upon their flight,
And seas are blanched by many a swift keel ploughed.
The fleet Arabian steed is not more proud
Than these wing’d coursers in their conscious might
Such white plumed flocks the dovecotes never yield,
No silver tern so gracefully cleaves the air;
For flying, noiseless, o’er the emerald field
Only a dream of sylphs could be so fair;
No shuddering flanks a bloody spur shall stain,
No panting lives midway sink, spent, upon the plain.
Blue in the shadow, snowy in the sun,
Stretched to the pole horizon fares the fleet,
Full-breasted, gliding to their dim retreat
Where for the victor waits the signal gun.
Foremost of all the gallant flock is one
Who treats the waters under noiseless feet,
Erect and stately as a queen, to meet
The echoing plaudits even now begun.
Fire-breathing dragons from their lungs of steel
Shriek “Victory!” as she cuts th’invisible line;
Their sulphurous [sic] clouds with inward thunders reel,
From red-lipped cannon volleying o’er the brine;
While the fair conqueror courtesies with a grace
So proud it seems half scorn of her own well-won race!
The White Flyers