At the touch of your strong fingers,
Doubt, the derelict, is gone;
Sane and glad I clear the headland
With the white ships of St. John.
Loyalists, my fathers, builded
This gray port of the gray sea,
When the duty to ideals
Could not let well-being be.
When the breadth of scarlet bunting
Puts the wreath of maple on,
I must cheer too,--slip my moorings
With the ships of gray St. John.
Peerless-hearted port of heroes,
Be a word to lift the world,
Till the many see the signal
Of the few once more unfurled.
Past the lighthouse, past the nunbuoy,
Past the crimson rising sun,
There are dreams go down the harbor
With the tall ships of St. John.
In the morning I am with them
As they clear the island bar,--
Fade, till speck by speck the midday
Has forgotten where they are.
But I sight a vaster sea-line,
Wider lee-way, longer run,
Whose discoverers return not
With the ships of gray St. John.
THE KING OF YS
Wild across the Breton country,
Fabled centuries ago,
Riding from the black sea border,
Came the squadrons of the snow.
Piping dread at every latch-hole,
Moaning death at every sill,
The white Yule came down in vengeance
Upon Ys, and had its will.
Walled and dreamy stood the city,
Wide and dazzling shone the sea,
When the gods set hand to smother
Ys, the pride of Brittany.
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