The Shipping Clerk.

No more upon the deep the galleon dips,
From Eastern oceans, with its woolly fleece
And odorous gums. No more the trireme slips
Its cable for the wine-dark seas of Greece,
Or rides deep-laden with the gems of Ind,
Pale poppy-scented drugs and ambergris,
Rare spikenard and oils ten times refined,
And wroughten silver from the mines of Dis.

Instead, he sits upon a high-perched stool,
With mournful mouth and outworn office-coat.
Statistics clog his brain with rankling rule,
And calculations rumble in his throat.
He sprawls and yawns, while, half the world around,
A dirty tramp rolls into Plymouth Sound.

C. Q. P.