Unknown
I.
Though winds are high and skies are dark,
And the stars scarce show us a meteor spark;
Yet buoyantly bounds our gallant barque,
Through billows that flash in a sea of blue;
We are coursing free, like the Viking shark,
And our prey, like him, pursue!
II.
At each plunge of our prow we bare the graves,
Where, heedless of roar among winds and waves,
The dead have slept in their ocean caves,
Never once dreaming–as if no more
They hear, though the Storm-God ramps and raves
From the deeps to the rock-bound shore.
III.
Brave sailors were they in the ancient times,
Heroes or pirates–men of all climes,
That had never an ear for the Sabbath chimes,
Never once called on the priest to be shriven;
They died with the courage that still sublimes,
And, haply, may fit for Heaven.
IV.
Never once asking the when or why,
But ready, all hours, to battle and die,
They went into fight with a terrible cry,
Counting no odds, and, victors or slain,
Meeting fortune or fate, with an equal eye,
Defiant of death and pain.
V.
Dread are the tales of the wondrous deep,
And well do the billows their secrets keep,
And sound should those savage old sailors sleep,
If sleep they may after such a life;
Where every dark passion, alert and aleap,
Made slumber itself a strife.
VI.
What voices of horror, through storm and surge,
Sang in the perishing ear its dirge,
As, raging and rending, o’er Hell’s black verge,
Each howling soul sank to its doom;
And what thunder-tones from the deeps emerge,
As yawns for its prey the tomb!
VII.
We plough the same seas which the rovers trod,
But with better faith in the saving God,
And bear aloft and carry abroad
The starry cross, our sacred sign,
Which, never yet sullied by crime or fraud,
Makes light o’er the midnight brine.
VIII.
And we rove not now on a lawless quest,
With passions foul in the hero’s breast,
Moved by no greed at the fiend’s behest,
Gloating in lust o’er a bloody prey;
But from tyrant robber the spoil to wrest,
And tear down his despot sway!
IX.
‘Gainst the spawn of Europe, and all the lands,
British and German–Norway’s sands,
Dutchland and Irish–the hireling bands
Bought for butchery–recking no rede,
But, flocking like vultures, with felon hands,
To fatten the rage of greed.
X.
With scath they traverse both land and sea,
And with sacred wrath we must make them flee;
Making the path of the nations free,
And planting peace in the heart of strife;
In the star of the cross, our liberty
Brings light to the world, and life!
XI.
Let Christendom cower ‘neath Stripes and Stars,
Cloaking her shame under legal bars,
Not too moral for traffic, but shirking wars,
While the Southern cross, floating topmast high.
Though torn, perchance, by a thousand scars,
Shall light up the midnight sky!
© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes
You may find this and other poems here.
Analysis (AI Assisted)
This poem uses the language and motion of the sea to frame war as both inheritance and mission. From the opening stanza, the speaker places the reader aboard a ship pushing forward despite darkness, rough weather, and uncertainty. The movement is confident and aggressive. The ship is not merely surviving the storm but cutting through it, actively hunting. The comparison to a Viking shark establishes a lineage of raiders and warriors, suggesting that the present crew sees itself as part of an older, harsher tradition of seafaring violence.
As the poem looks downward into the sea, it shifts from motion to memory. The ocean becomes a graveyard filled with the dead of earlier ages, sailors who lived and died without reflection, religion, or hesitation. These figures are admired for their fearlessness rather than judged for their brutality. The poem acknowledges that they were pirates as much as heroes, but it treats that distinction as secondary. What matters is their readiness to fight and die, their refusal to question fate, and their indifference to pain. Death at sea is presented as constant and unavoidable, something faced directly rather than avoided or softened.
The tone darkens as the poem dwells on the violence and chaos of those past lives. There is no attempt to make their end peaceful. The imagery is loud, hellish, and overwhelming, filled with screams, storms, and the sense of souls being dragged downward. Even sleep is described as uneasy, haunted by the life that came before it. This section of the poem feels almost cautionary, reminding the reader that the romance of the sea and war carries real horror beneath it.
The turning point comes when the speaker separates the present sailors from their predecessors. The same seas are being crossed, but the purpose is claimed to be different. Faith replaces lawlessness, and the cross replaces raw appetite. The poem insists that this war is guided by belief and restraint, not greed or cruelty. The sailors are no longer predators for personal gain but agents of justice, bearing a sacred symbol meant to bring order and light.
That claim grows stronger and more political as the poem continues. The enemy is clearly named and broadly defined, drawn from Europe and described as mercenary, greedy, and corrupt. They are portrayed as scavengers rather than soldiers, motivated by money rather than conviction. Against them, the speaker positions his side as righteous, driven by “sacred wrath” and the goal of freeing nations and planting peace. War here is framed as a cleansing act, necessary and morally justified.
The final stanza sharpens this divide by contrasting two symbols. The Stripes and Stars are accused of cowardice and hypocrisy, hiding behind law and profit while avoiding true sacrifice. In contrast, the Southern cross is elevated as battered but honorable, scarred yet shining. The poem ends not with doubt or grief, but with defiance and certainty. The symbol may be damaged, but it still claims the sky.
As a war poem, this piece is openly ideological. It does not question its own assumptions or linger on cost beyond the enemy’s destruction. Its strength lies in how fully it commits to its worldview, blending maritime tradition, religious conviction, and national identity into a single driving force. At the same time, that certainty limits the poem. The violence it condemns in others is justified in itself without reflection, and the horrors described earlier are rebranded as acceptable when carried out for the “right” cause. The poem captures how war can be made to feel ancient, sacred, and inevitable, especially when wrapped in symbols powerful enough to drown out doubt.