The windlass strains the tackle chains, the black mound heaves below, And red and deep a hundred veins burst out at every throe! It rises, roars, rends all outright--O, Vulcan, what a glow: 'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright--the high sun shines not so! The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery fearful show; The roof-ribs swart, the candent hearth, the ruddy lurid row Of smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing-monster slow Sinks on the anvil--all about the faces fiery grow.
"Hurrah!" they shout, "leap out--leap out;" bang, bang the sledges go; Hurrah! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low-- A hailing fount of fire is struck at every quashing blow; The leathern mail rebounds the hail, the rattling cinders strow The ground around: at every bound the sweltering fountains flow And thick and loud the swinking crowd at every stroke pant "Ho!"
Leap out, leap out, my masters; leap out and lay on load! Let's forge a goodly anchor--a bower thick and broad; For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode, And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous road-- The low reef roaring on her lee--the roll of ocean poured From stem to stern, sea after sea; the mainmast by the board; The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats stove at the chains! But courage still, brave mariners--the bower yet remains! And not an inch to flinch he deigns, save when ye pitch sky-high; Then moves his head, as though he said, "Fear nothing--here am I."
Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand keep time; Your blows make sweeter music far than any steeple's chime. But while you sling your sledges, sing--and let the burden be, "The anchor is the anvil king, and royal craftsmen we:" Strike in, strike in--the sparks begin to dull their rustling red; Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will soon be sped.
Our anchor must soon change his bed of fiery rich array, For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay; Our anchor must soon change the lay of merry craftsmen here, For the "Yeo-heave-o'!" and the "Heave-away!" and the sighing seaman's cheer; When, weighing slow, at eve they go--far, far from love and home; And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the ocean foam.