They lifted anchor, spread the sails,Quit shores where they were born,Bound for spice isles from doubtful talesBy way of far Cape Horn—Rough seamen, fortune-bound, to tradeIn gold and peppercornAnd woo a grass-clad island maid—But first to round Cape Horn.They crossed the far equator, searedIn emerald tropics, borneOn friendly breezes till they nearedThe South Seas’ gate: Cape Horn.To brave it was to challenge fate,Taste death, perhaps, and mourn;To pass it was to celebrateSurviving feared Cape Horn.It rose above the frigid waves,Stark, jagged, and forlorn,The crag, foremost of sailors’ graves,The end of lands—Cape Horn.There, frigid crests soared, roiled, and crashedIn frothing chaos, tornBy howling, sleety gales that blastUnceasing round Cape Horn.They buffeted the ship aboutUntil its masts were shorn,Its hull split and its crew spilled out,More blood to slake Cape Horn.Unmoved, the…
