The Weather-leech of the topsail shivers,
  The bowlines strain, and the lee-shrouds slacken,
The braces are taut, the lithe boom quivers,
  And the waves with the coming squall-cloud blacken.

Open one point on the weather-bow,
  Is the light-house tall on Fire Island Head?
There’s a shade of doubt on the captain’s brow,
  And the pilot...