To The Master Of The _Meteor_

Lonesome on earth’s loneliest deep,
Sailor! who dost thy vigil keep–
Off the Cape of Storms dost musing sweep
Over monstrous waves that curl and comb;
Of thee we think when here from brink
We blow the mead in bubbling foam.

Of thee we think, in a ring we link;
To the shearer of ocean’s fleece we drink,
And the _Meteor_ rolling home.