Ice on every shroud and eyelet,
Rocking in the windy trough?
No more panic; Man's your pilot;
Turns the flood, and we are off!

At the story of disaster,
From the continents of sleep,
I am come to be your master
And put out into the deep.

What tide current struck you hither,
Beating up the storm of years?
Where are those who stood to weather
These uncharted gulfs of tears?

Did your fellows all drive under
In the maelstrom of the sun,
While you only, for a wonder,
Rode the wash you could not shun?

We'll crowd sail across the sea-line,--
Clear this harbor, reef and buoy,
Bowling down an open bee-line
For the latitudes of joy;

Till beyond the zones of sorrow,
Past griefs haven in the night,
Some large simpler world shall morrow
This pale region's northern light.