1 They christened my brother of old— And a saintly name he bears— They gave him his place to hold At the head of the belfry-stairs, Where the minister-towers stand And the breeding kestrels cry. Would I change with my brother a league inland? (Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I! 2 In the flush of the hot June prime, O'er sleek flood-tides afire, I hear him hurry the chime To the bidding of checked Desire; Till the sweated ringers tire And the wild bob-majors die. Could I wait for my turn in the godly choir? (Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I! 3 When the smoking scud is blown— When the greasy wind-rack lowers— Apart and at peace and alone, He counts the changeless hours. He wars with darkling Powers (I war with a darkling sea); Would he stoop to my work in the gusty mirk? (Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not he! 4 There was never a priest to pray There was never a hand to toll, When they made me guard of the bay, And moored me over the shoal. I rock, I reel, and I roll— My four great hammers ply— Could I speak or be still at the Church's will? (Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I! 5 The landward marks have failed, The fog-bank glides unguessed, The seaward lights are veiled, The spent deep feigns her rest: But my ear is laid to her breast, I lift to the swell—I cry! Could I wait in sloth on the Church's oath? (Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I! 6 At the careless end of night I thrill to the nearing screw; I turn in the clearing light And I call to the drowsy crew; And the mud boils foul and blue As the blind bow backs away. Will they give me their thanks if they clear the banks? (Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not they! 7 The beach-pools cake and skim, The bursting spray-heads freeze, I gather on crown and rim The grey, grained ice of the seas, Where, sheathed from bitt to trees, The plunging colliers lie. Would I barter my place for the Church's grace? (Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I! 8 Through the blur of the whirling snow, Or the black of the inky sleet, The lanterns gather and grow, And I look for the homeward fleet. Rattle of block and sheet— "Ready about-stand by!" Shall I ask them a fee ere they fetch the quay? (Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I! 9 I dip and I surge and I swing In the rip of the racing tide, By the gates of doom I sing, On the horns of death I ride. A ship-length overside, Between the course and the sand, Fretted and bound I bide Peril whereof I cry. Would I change with my brother a league inland? (Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I!
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