The Child and the Mariner

Alas that he, the hero of my dreams,

Should be his people’s scorn; for they had rose

To proud command of ships, whilst he had toiled

Before the mast for years, and well content;

Him they despised, and only Death could bring

A likeness in his face to show like them.

For he drank all his pay, nor went to sea

As long as ale was easy got on shore,

Now, in his last long voyage he had sailed

From Plymouth Sound to where sweet odours fan

The Cingalese at work, and then back home—

But came not near his kin till pay was spent.

He was not old, yet seemed so; for his face

Looked like the drowned man’s in the morgue, when it

Has struck the wooden wharves and keels of ships.

And all his flesh was pricked with Indian ink,

His body marked as rare and delicate

As dead men struck by lightning under trees,

And pictured with fine twigs and curlèd ferns;

Chains on his neck and anchors on his arms;

Rings on his fingers, bracelets on his wrist;

And on his breast the Jane of Appledore

Was schooner rigged, and in full sail at sea.