If he had to work!--But no, a real sea poet does not work.
Ferrier was a good and plucky man, but the moments went past him, leaving legacies of fear.

Was he to leave the kindly world?
Oh! thrilling breath of spring, gladness of sunlight, murmur of trees, gracious faces of women! Were all to be seen no more?
Every joyous hour came back to memory; every ungrateful thought spoken or uttered was now remembered with remorse.

Have you looked in the jaws of death?
I have, and Ferrier did so.

When the wheels of being are twirling slowly to a close, when the animal in us is cowed into stupor, then the spirit craves passionately for succour; and let a man be never so lightsome, he stretches lame hands of faith and gropes, even though he seem to gather but dust and chaff.
Roar on roar, volley on volley, sweep on sweep of crying water--so the riot of the storm went on; the skipper waited helplessly like a dumb drudge, and a hand of ice seemed to clutch at Ferrier's heart.
He went down to see Withers and found him patient as before.
"She du seem to have got a lot of water in her, sir.

I never felt quite like this since once I was hove down.