The Ports Of The Open Sea

Down here where the ships loom large in     The gloom when the sea-storms veer,     Down here on the south-west margin     Of the western hemisphere,     Where the might of a world-wide ocean     Round the youngest land rolls free,     Storm-bound from the worlds commotion,     Lie the Ports of the Open Sea.     By the bluff where the grey sand reaches     To the kerb of the spray-swept street,     By the sweep of the black sand beaches     From the main-road travellers feet,     By the heights like a work Titanic,     By a bluff lined coast volcanic     Lie the Ports of the wild South-east.     By the steeps of the snow-capped range,     By the scarped and terraced hills,     Far away from the swift life-changes,     From the wear of the strife that kills,     Where the land in the Spring seems younger     Than a land of the Earth might be,     Oh! the hearts of the rovers hunger     For the Ports of the Open Sea.     But the captains watch and hearken     For a sign of the South Sea wrath,     Let the face of the South-east darken,     And they turn to the ocean path.     Ay, the sea-boats dare not linger,     Whatever the cargo be;     When the South-east lifts a finger     By the Ports of the Open Sea.     South by the bleak Bluff faring,     North where the Three Kings wait,     South-east the tempest daring,     Flight through the storm-tossed strait;     Yonder a white-winged roamer     Struck where the rollers roar,     Where the great green froth-flaked comber     Breaks down on a black-ribbed shore.     For the South-east lands are dread lands     To the sailor in the shrouds,     Where the low clouds loom like headlands,     And the black bluffs blur like clouds.     When the breakers rage to windward     And the lights are masked a-lee,     And the sunken rocks run inward     To a Port of the Open Sea.     But oh! for the South-east weather,     The sweep of the three-days gale,     When, far through the flax and heather,     The spindrift drives like hail.     Glory to mans creations     That drive where the gale grows gruff,     When the homes of the sea-coast stations     Flash white from the darkning bluff!     When the swell of the South-east rouses     The wrath of the Maori sprite,     And the brown folk flee their houses     And crouch in the flax by night,     And wait as they long have waited,     In fear as the brown folk be,     The wave of destruction fated     For the Ports of the Open Sea.     Grey cloud to the mountain bases,     Wild boughs that rush and sweep;     On the rounded hills the tussocks     Like flocks of flying sheep;     A lonely storm-bird soaring     Oer tussock, fern and tree;     And the boulder beaches roaring     The Hymn of the Open Sea.