SEA SPRAY &' SMOKE DRIFT 



In the worrying grapple that chokes and 

 rends ; — 

 Rare sport, at least, for the bear. 



Short shrift ! sharp fate ! dark doom to dree ! 



Hard struggle, tho' quickly ending ! 

 At home or abroad, by land or sea, 

 In peace or war, sore trials must be. 

 And worse may happen to you or to me, 

 For none are secure, and none can flee 



From a destiny impending. 



Ah ! friend, did you think when the London 



sank, 

 Timber by timber, plank by plank, 



In a cauldron of boiling surf, 

 How alone at least, with never a flinch. 

 In a rally contested inch by inch. 



You could fall on the trampled turf? 

 When a livid wall of the sea leaps high. 

 In the lurid light of a leaden sky. 



And bursts on the quarter railing ; 



While the howling storm-gust seems to vie 



With the crash of splintered beams that fly, 



Yet fails too oft to smother the cry 



Of women and children wailing ? 



32 



