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     Lay rib to rib and beam to beam,
And drive the treenails free;
     Nor faithless joint nor yawning seam
Shall tempt the searching sea!

Where'er the keel of our good ship
     The sea's rough field shall plough;
Where'er her tossing spars shall drip
     With salt-spray caught below;
That ship must heed her master's beck,
     Her helm obey his hand,
And seamen tread her reeling deck
     As if they trod the land.

Her oaken ribs the vulture-beak
     Of Northern ice may peel;
The sunken rock and coral peak
     May grate along her keel;
And know we well the painted shell
     We give to wind and wave,
Must float, the sailor's citadel,
     Or sink, the sailor's grave!

Ho! strike away the bars and blocks,
     And set the good ship free!
Why lingers on these dusty rocks
     The young bride of the sea?
Look! how she moves adown the grooves,
     In graceful beauty now!
How lowly on the breast she loves
     Sinks down her virgin prow!

God bless her! wheresoe'er the breeze
     Her snowy wing shall fan,

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