Sailors there are of gentlest breed,
Yet strong, like every goodly thing;
The discipline of arms refines,
And the wave gives tempering.
The damasked blade its beam can fling;
It lends the last grave grace:
The hawk, the hound, and sworded nobleman
In Titian’s picture for a king,
Are of Hunter or warrior race.
In social halls a favored guest
In years that follow victory won,
How sweet to feel your festal fame,
In woman’s glance instinctive thrown:
Repose is yours—your deed is known,
It musks the amber wine;
It lives, and sheds a litle from storied days
Rich as October sunsets brown,
Which make the barren place to shine.