The Bell Buoy

  They christened my brother of old--
    And a saintly name he bears--
  They gave him his place to hold
    At the head of the belfry-stairs,
    Where the minster-towers stand
  And the breeding kestrels cry.
    Would I change with my brother a league inland?
  (_Shoal! ’Ware shoal!_) Not I!

  In the flush of the hot June prime,
    O’er smooth flood-tides afire,
  I hear him hurry the chime
    To the bidding of checked Desire;
    Till the sweated ringers tire
  And the wild bob-majors die.
    Could I wait for my turn in the godly choir?
  (_Shoal! ’Ware shoal!_) Not I!

  When the smoking scud is blown,
    When the greasy wind-rack lowers,
  Apart and at peace and alone,
    He counts the changeless hours.
    He wars with darkling Powers
  (I war with a darkling sea);
    Would he stoop to my work in the gusty mirk?
  (_Shoal! ’Ware shoal!_) Not he!

  There was never a priest to pray,
    There was never a hand to toll,
  When they made me guard of the bay,
    And moored me over the shoal.
    I rock, I reel, and I roll--
  My four great hammers ply--
    Could I speak or be still at the Church’s will?
  (_Shoal! ’Ware shoal!_) Not I!

  The landward marks have failed,
    The fog-bank glides unguessed,
  The seaward lights are veiled,
    The spent deep feigns her rest:
    But my ear is laid to her breast,
  I lift to the swell--I cry!
    Could I wait in sloth on the Church’s oath?
  (_Shoal! ’Ware shoal!_) Not I!

  At the careless end of night
    I thrill to the nearing screw;
  I turn in the nearing light
    And I call to the drowsy crew;
    And the mud boils foul and blue
  As the blind bow backs away.
    Will they give me their thanks if they clear the banks?
  (_Shoal! ’Ware shoal!_) Not they!

  The beach-pools cake and skim,
    The bursting spray-heads freeze,
  I gather on crown and rim
    The grey, grained ice of the seas,
    Where, sheathed from bitt to trees,
  The plunging colliers lie.
    Would I barter my place for the Church’s grace?
  (_Shoal! ’Ware shoal!_) Not I!

  Through the blur of the whirling snow,
    Or the black of the inky sleet,
  The lanterns gather and grow,
    And I look for the homeward fleet.
    Rattle of block and sheet--
  ‘Ready about--stand by!’
    Shall I ask them a fee ere they fetch the quay?
  (_Shoal! ’Ware shoal!_) Not I!

  I dip and I surge and I swing
    In the rip of the racing tide,
  By the gates of doom I sing,
    On the horns of death I ride.
    A ship-length overside,
  Between the course and the sand,
    Fretted and bound I bide
        Peril whereof I cry.
    Would I change with my brother a league inland?
  (_Shoal! ’Ware shoal!_) Not I!