The Whaling City

The Whaling City Like many working cities, from time long past, This place too, captured a man’s hearts and mind, And so, they came, tired, drawn, weary, seekers, Castaways and drifters seeking redemption the sea. World travelers, carrying with them worldly ways, And the rogue daring heart of the new whalemen. Mariners as gritty and strong as the new born city, Who relished each breath of the tinged thick salty air. They strode from small shanties on cobblestone streets, Past the rigging artisans dotting Union St., at dawns light, And down to the bustling, working, stained wood wharfs, Where before them lay the gentle welcome harbor waters, And rows on rows of majestic wooden whaling ships, Their heavy canvas sails furled to round oaken spars, Levithan ships, rocking gently at berth, tall and proud, Their masts etched high against a blue New England sky. “A dead whale or a stove boat”, the harpooners’ fabled cry, And if the battle be won, and the ocean’s bounty be taken, They returned heroes, brave conquerors of nature’s wrath. But at days end, only whale oil lamps lit the quiet streets, And the windows of the Seamen’s Bethel cast a dim glow, A beacon light, for those left behind, when all hope is lost, And dreams lay splintered and dashed at the ocean’s bottom, Unforgiving icy waters, where the dead lay, forever beyond reach.