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St. Lawrence And The Coming Ships.
By W. M. MacKeracher
I cannot loiter on my way,
The ice is drifting through Belle Isle,
And far to seaward by Cape Ray
Broad leagues of open water smile.
Unheeded now, the inland barge
Creeps heavily, the fisher dips
His meshes in my brimming marge;
I go to meet the coming ships.
They steam from Thames by Dover Strait,
They cleave the Bristol Channel's tide,
They pass the Mersey's thronging gate,
And issue from the crowded Clyde.
Out past the homing craft they sheer,
The Irish coastline by them slips;
Ere many days they will be here:
I go to meet the coming ships.
Full-fraught with wealth of merchandise,
They plough the main with furrows deep;
Upon the waves they sink and rise,
But onward, onward ever keep.
And some a viewless message send,
Whose airy flight their speed outstrips;
And all their yearnings hither tend:
I go to meet the coming ships.
I tarry not by fortress old,
Nor pause by any pleasant shore,
But hasten, eager to behold
Those brave leviathans once more,
To welcome them with parted banks,
And kiss their prows with loving lips,
And soothingly caress their flanks;
I go to meet the coming ships.
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