The old sea captains, when their work
Was done on the eternal sea,
Came each ashore and built a house
And settled down reluctantly;
And in his front lawn each set up
A flagstaff and a telescope.

Each little house was painted white
With shutters gay and pointed gables
From which the vines hung loose or tight
Or twisted round like coiled-up cables;
And each green lawn was so well drest
It seemed a little sea at rest.

And some were stocky men with beards
And some were tawny, blue-eyed men;
And, when they talked, you might have heard
Surnames that end in " -ing " or " -sen " ;
All sensed, since they had left the scene,
A falling off in things marine.

You cannot find their houses now
The place is so much built upon,
They lived — they say who ought to know —
Between Brielle and Manasquan;
But you can find, in some old store,
The curious things they brought ashore:

Old compasses, chronometers,
And here a sextant ornamented,
A binnacle and carven wares,
A captain's spy glass, rather dented,
A keg that raxed a pirate's throttle,
A schooner full rigged in a bottle:

Weapons with silver work inlaid;
Blue glass the dealer says is Bristol's,
Carved shells and bits of Chinese jade;
Two old, brass-barrelled, flint-lock pistols,
And, if these fail to take your fancy,
A figurehead called Spumy Nancy .

These old seafarers in their day,
If asked about impressions wrought
By isles of Ind or far Cathay
Could give no record of their thought;
What wonder worker ever knows
The wonder of the things he does?

Aye; but the little children knew
What deep lagoons they anchored in,
What reefs they took their vessels through,
And of strange cargoes hard to win;
The Isles of Spice, typhoons and thunder,
The Yellow Sea, and all its wonder.

They came to think, as they grew old
And found themselves with few compeers,
That things grow better when they're told,
And they themselves improved with years;
They'd sail again, did it beseem
Experienced men to take to steam.

Meanwhile, the long deserted sea
Resented them as one neglected;
She swished her tides resentfully
And tons and tons of sand collected
And silted up the narrow way
That leads to Barnagat's still Bay.

So that they lived as men marooned:
They could not sail now if they hankered;
You'd think, to see their homes festooned,
A fleet was in the Bay and anchored,
So gaily grew the creepers mounting,
So gaily flew the flagstaffs' bunting.