The skipper he stood beside the helm,

His pipe was in his mouth,

And he watched how the veering flaw did blow The smoke now West, now South.

Then up and spake an old Sailòr,

Had sailed the Spanish Main,

"I pray thee, put into yonder port, For I fear a hurricane.

"Last night the moon had a golden ring, And to-night no moon we see!"

The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe, And a scornful laugh laughed he.

Colder and colder blew the wind,

A gale from the North-east;

The snow fell hissing in the brine,

And the billows frothed like yeast.

Down came the storm, and smote amain
The vessel in its strength;

She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,
Then leaped her cable's length.

"Come hither! come hither! my little daughter, And do not tremble so;

For I can weather the roughest gale

That ever wind did blow."

He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat
Against the stinging blast;
He cut a rope from a broken spar,

And bound her to the mast.

"O father! I hear the church-bells ring, O say, what may it be?" "Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast:" And he steered for the open sea.

"O father! I hear the sound of guns, O say, what may it be?" "Some ship in distress, that cannot live In such an angry sea!"

"O father! I see a gleaming light, 0 say, what may it be?"

But the father answered never a word, A frozen corpse was he.

Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,
With his face turned to the skies,
The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow
On his fixed and glassy eyes.

Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed
That saved she might be ;

And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave On the Lake of Galilee.