<html xmlns:tei="http://www.tei-c.org/ns/1.0"><body><h1 align="center" class="head">The "William P. Frye"</h1><div class="stanza"><p class="line">I <span class="smallcaps">saw</span> her first abreast the Boston Light</p><p class="line">At anchor; she had just come in, turned head,</p><p class="line">And sent her hawsers creaking, clattering down.</p><p class="line">I was so near to where the hawse-pipes fed</p><p class="line">The cable out from her careening bow,</p><p class="line">I moved up on the swell, shut steam and lay</p><p class="line">Hove to in my old launch to look at her.</p><p class="line">She'd come in light, a-skimming up the Bay</p><p class="line">Like a white ghost with topsails bellying full;</p><p class="line">And all her noble lines from bow to stern</p><p class="line">Made music in the wind; it seemed she rode</p><p class="line">The morning air like those thin clouds that turn</p><p class="line">Into tall ships when sunrise lifts the clouds</p><p class="line">From calm sea-courses.</p></div><div class="stanza"><p class="line">There, in smoke-smudged coats,</p><p class="line">Lay funnelled liners, dirty fishing-craft,</p><p class="line">Blunt cargo-luggers, tugs, and ferry-boats.</p><p class="line">Oh, it was good in that black-scuttled lot</p><p class="line">To see the <em>Frye</em> come lording on her way</p><p class="line">Like some old queen that we had half forgot</p><p class="line">Come to her own. A little up the Bay</p><p class="line">The Fort lay green, for it was springtime then;</p><p class="line">The wind was fresh, rich with the spicy bloom</p><p class="line">Of the New England coast that tardily</p><p class="line">Escapes, late April, from an icy tomb.</p><p class="line">The State-house glittered on old Beacon Hill,</p><p class="line">Gold in the sun.... 'T was all so fair awhile;</p><p class="line">But she was fairest -- this great square-rigged ship</p><p class="line">That had blown in from some far happy isle</p><p class="line">On from the shores of the Hesperides.</p></div><div class="stanza"><p class="line">They caught her in a South Atlantic road</p><p class="line">Becalmed, and found her hold brimmed up with wheat;</p><p class="line">"Wheat's contrabrand," they said, and blew her hull</p><p class="line">To pieces, murdered one of our staunch fleet,</p><p class="line">Fast dwindling, of the big old sailing ships</p><p class="line">That carry trade for us on the high sea</p><p class="line">And warped out of each harbor in the States.</p><p class="line">It was n't law, so it seems strange to me --</p><p class="line">A big mistake. Her keel's struck bottom now</p><p class="line">And her four masts sunk fathoms, fathoms deep</p><p class="line">To Davy Jones. The dank seaweed will root</p><p class="line">On her oozed decks, and the cross-surges sweep</p><p class="line">Through the set sails; but never, never more</p><p class="line">Her crew will stand away to brace and trim,</p><p class="line">Nor sea-blown petrels meet her thrashing up</p><p class="line">To windward on the Gulf Stream's stormy rim;</p><p class="line">Never again she'll head a no'theast gale</p><p class="line">Or like a spirit loom up, sliding dumb,</p><p class="line">And ride in safe beyond the Boston Light,</p><p class="line">To make the harbor glad because she's come.</p></div><p class="byline">Jeanne Robert Foster</p></body></html> · Great War