SEA GHOSTS

We met the Flying Dutchman, By midnight he came, His hull was all of hell fire, His sails were all aflame; Fire on the main-top, Fire on the bow, Fire on the gun-deck, Fire down below. Four-and-twenty dead men, Those were the crew, The devil on the bowsprit, Fiddled as she flew, We gave her the broadside, Right in the dip, Just like a candle, Went out the ship.

In Mather's Magnalia Christi, Of the old colonial time, May be found in prose the legend That is here set down in rhyme. A ship sailed from New Haven, And the keen and the frosty airs, That filled her sails at parting, Were heavy with good men's prayers. "O Lord, if it be thy pleasure"— Thus prayed the old divine— "To bury our friends in the ocean, Take them, for they are thine." But Master Lamberton muttered, And under his breath said he, "This ship is so crank and walty, I fear our grave she will be!" And the ships that came from England, When the winter months were gone, Brought no tidings of this vessel Nor of Master Lamberton. This put the people to praying That the Lord would let them hear What in his greater wisdom He had done with their friends so dear. And at last their prayers were answered: It was in the month of June, An hour before the sunset Of a windy afternoon. When steadily steering landward, A ship was seen below, And they knew it was Lamberton, Master, Who sailed so long ago. On she came with a cloud of canvas, Right against the wind that blew, Until the eye could distinguish The faces of the crew. Then fell her straining topmasts, Hanging tangled in the shrouds. And her sails were loosened and lifted, And blown away like clouds. And the masts, with all their rigging, Fell slowly, one by one, And the hulk dilated and vanished, As a sea-mist in the sun! And the people who saw this marvel Each said unto his friend, That this was the mould of the vessel, And thus her tragic end. And the pastor of the village Gave thanks to God in prayer, That, to quiet their troubled spirits, He had sent this ship of air.

'Tis the laughter of pines that swing and sway Where the breeze from the land meets the breeze from the bay, 'Tis the silvery foam of the silver tide In ripples that reach to the forest side; 'Tis the fisherman's boat, in the track of sheen, Plying through tangled seaweed green, O'er the Baie des Chaleurs. Who has not heard of the phantom light That over the moaning waves at night Dances and drifts in endless play, Close to the shore, then far away, Fierce as the flame in sunset skies, Cold as the winter light that lies On the Baie des Chaleurs. They tell us that many a year ago, From lands where the palm and olive grow, Where vines with their purple clusters creep Over the hillsides gray and steep, A knight in his doublet, slashed with gold, Famed in that chivalrous time of old, For valorous deeds and courage rare, Sailed with a princess wondrous fair To the Baie des Chaleurs. That a pirate crew from some isle of the sea, A murderous band as e'er could be, With a shadowy sail, and a flag of night, That flaunted and flew in heaven's sight, Swept in the wake of the lovers there, And sank the ship and its freight so fair In the Baie des Chaleurs. Strange is the tale that the fishermen tell,— They say that a ball of fire fell Straight from the sky, with crash and roar, Lighting the bay from shore to shore; That the ship with a shudder and a groan, Sank through the waves to the caverns lone Of the Baie des Chaleurs. That was the last of the pirate crew, But many a night a black flag flew From the mast of a spectre vessel, sailed By a spectre band that wept and wailed, For the wreck they had wrought on the sea and the land, For the innocent blood they had spilt on the sand, Of the Baie des Chaleurs. This is the tale of the phantom light, That fills the mariner's heart at night, With dread as it gleams o'er his path on the bay, Now by the shore, then far away, Fierce as the flame in sunset skies, Cold as the winter moon that lies On the Baie des Chaleurs.

"O Mary, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, Across the sands of Dee!" The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam, And all alone went she. The western tide crept up along the sand, And o'er and o'er the sand, And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see. The rolling mist came down and hid the land— And never home came she. "Oh, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair— A tress of golden hair, A drownéd maiden's hair Above the nets at sea? Was never salmon yet that shone so fair, Among the stakes of Dee." They rowed her in across the rolling foam, The cruel, crawling foam, The cruel, hungry foam, To her grave beside the sea, But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home, Across the sands of Dee!

"They made her a grave too cold and damp For a soul so warm and true; And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp, Where all night long, by a firefly lamp, She paddles her white canoe. And her firefly lamp I soon shall see, And her paddle I soon shall hear; Long and loving our life shall be, And I'll hide the maid in a cypress-tree, When the footstep of death is near!" Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds,— His path was rugged and sore, Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds, Through many a fen where the serpent feeds, And man never trod before! And when on the earth he sunk to sleep, If slumber his eyelids knew, He lay where the deadly vine doth weep Its venomous tear, and nightly steep The flesh with blistering dew! And near him the she-wolf stirred the brake, And the copper-snake breathed in his ear, Till he starting cried, from his dream awake, "Oh, when shall I see the dusky Lake, And the white canoe of my dear?" He saw the Lake, and a meteor bright Quick over its surface played,— "Welcome," he said, "my dear one's light!" And the dim shore echoed for many a night, The name of the death-cold maid! He hollowed a boat of the birchen bark, Which carried him off from shore; Far he followed the meteor spark, The wind was high and the clouds were dark, And the boat returned no more. But oft from the Indian hunter's camp, This lover and maid so true, Are seen at the hour of midnight damp, To cross the lake by a firefly lamp, And paddle their white canoe!

On Tappan Zee a shroud of gray Is heavy, dank, and low. And dimly gleams the beacon-ray Of white Pocantico. No skipper braves old Hudson now Where Nyack's Headlands frown, And safely moored is every prow Of drowsy Tarrytown; Yet, clear as word of human lip, The river sends its shores The rhythmic rullock-clank and drip Of even-rolling oars. What rower plies a reckless oar With mist on flood and strand? That Oarsman toils forevermore And ne'er shall reach the land. Roystering, rollicking Ram van Dam, Fond of a frolic and fond of a dram, Fonder—yea, fonder, proclaims renown,— Of Tryntje Bogardus of Tarrytown, Leaves Spuyten Duyvil to roar his song! Pull! For the current is sly and strong; Nestles the robin and flies the bat. Ho! for the frolic at Kakiat! Merry, the sport at the quilting bee Held at the farm on the Tappan Zee! Jovial labor with quips and flings, Dances with wonderful pigeon wings, Twitter of maidens and clack of dames, Honest flirtations and rousing games; Platters of savory beef and brawn, Buckets of treacle and good suppawn, Oceans of cider, and beer in lakes, Mountains of crullers and honey-cakes— Such entertainment could never pall! Rambout Van Dam took his fill of all; Laughed with the wittiest, worked with a zest, Danced with the prettiest, drank with the best. Oh! that enjoyment should breed annoy! Tryntje grew fickle or cold or coy; Rambout, possessed of a jealous sprite, Scowled like the sky on a stormy night, Snarled a good-bye from his sullen throat, Blustered away to his tugging boat. After him hastened Jacobus Horn: "Stay with us, Rambout, till Monday morn. Soon in the east will the dawn be gray, Rest from thy oars on the Sabbath Day." Angrily Rambout van Dam ripped back: "Dunder en Blitzen! du Schobbejak! Preach to thy children! and let them know Spite of the duyvil and thee, I'll row Thousands of Sundays, if need there be, Home o'er this ewig-vervlekte zee!" Muttering curses, he headed south. Jacob, astounded, with open mouth Watched him receding, when—crash on crash Volleyed the thunder! A hissing flash Smote on the river! He looked again. Rambout was gone from the sight of men! Old Dunderberg with grumbling roar Hath warned the fog to flee, But still that never-wearied oar Is heard on Tappan Zee. A moon is closed on Hudson's breast And lanterns gem the town; The phantom craft that may not rest Plies ever, up and down, 'Neath skies of blue and skies of gray, In spite of wind or tide, Until the trump of Judgment Day— A sound—and naught beside.

With drooping sail and pennant That never a wind may reach, They float in sunless waters Beside a sunless beach. Their misty masts and funnels Are white as driven snow, And with a pallid radiance Their ghostly bulwarks glow. Here is a Spanish galleon That once with gold was gay, Here is a Roman trireme Whose hues outshone the day. But Tyrian dyes have faded, And prows that once were bright With rainbow stains wear only Death's livid, dreadful white. White as the ice that clove her That unforgotten day, Among her pallid sisters The grim Titanic lay. And through the leagues above her She looked aghast and said: "What is this living ship that comes Where every ship is dead?" The ghostly vessels trembled From ruined stern to prow; What was this thing of terror That broke their vigil now? Down through the startled ocean A mighty vessel came, Not white, as all dead ships must be, But red, like living flame! The pale green waves above her Were swiftly, strangely dyed, By the great scarlet stream that flowed From out her wounded side. And all her decks were scarlet And all her shattered crew. She sank among the white ghost ships And stained them through and through. The grim Titanic greeted her. "And who art thou?" she said; "Why dost thou join our ghostly fleet Arrayed in living red? We are the ships of sorrow Who spend the weary night, Until the dawn of Judgment Day, Obscure and still and white." "Nay," said the scarlet visitor, "Though I sink through the sea, A ruined thing that was a ship, I sink not as did ye. For ye met with your destiny By storm or rock or fight, So through the lagging centuries Ye wear your robes of white. "But never crashing iceberg Nor honest shot of foe, Nor hidden reef has sent me The way that I must go. My wounds that stain the waters, My blood that is like flame, Bear witness to a loathly deed, A deed without a name. "I went not forth to battle, I carried friendly men, The children played about my decks, The women sang—and then— And then—the sun blushed scarlet And Heaven hid its face, The world that God created Became a shameful place! "My wrongs cry out for vengeance, The blow that sent me here Was aimed in Hell. My dying scream Has reached Jehovah's ear. Not all the seven oceans Shall wash away that stain; Upon the brow that wears a crown I am the brand of Cain." When God's great voice assembles The fleet on Judgment Day, The ghosts of ruined ships will rise In sea and strait and bay. Though they have lain for ages Beneath the changeless flood, They shall be white as silver, But one—shall be like blood.

Twist thou and twine! in light and gloom A spell is on thy hand; The wind shall be thy changeful loom, Thy web the twisting sand. Twine from this hour, in ceaseless toil, On Blackrock's sullen shore: Till cordage of the sand shall coil Where crested surges roar. 'Tis for that hour, when from the wave Near voices wildly cried; When thy stern hand no succour gave, The cable at thy side. Twist thou and twine! In light and gloom The spell is on thine hand; The wind shall be thy changeful loom, Thy web the shifting sand.

O' stormy nights, be they summer or winter, Hurricane nights like these, When spar and topsail are rag and splinter Hurled o'er the sluicing seas, To the jagged edge where the cliffs lean over, Climb as you best may climb; Lie there and listen where mysteries hover, Haunting the tides of Time. The crumbling surf on the shingle rattles, The great waves topple and pour, Full of the fury of ancient battles, Clamant with cries of war. The gale has summoned, the night has beckoned— Lo, from the east and west, Stately shadows arise unreckoned Out of their deeps of rest! Wild on the wind are voices ringing, Echoes that throng the air, Valiant voices, of victory singing, Or dark with sublime despair. To the distant drums with their rumbling hollow, The answering trumpets blow: War-horn and fife and cymbals follow, From galleys of long ago. The crested breaker on reef and boulder That swirls in cavernous black, Carries a challenge from decks that moulder To ships that never came back. The gale that swoops and the sea that wrestles Are one in their wrath and might With the crash and clashing of arméd vessels, Grinding across the night. Out of the dark the broadsides thunder, Clattering to and fro: The old sea-fighters, the old world's wonder, Are manning their wrecks below. You shall smell the smoke, you shall hear the crackle, Shall mark on the surly blast Rush and tear of the rending tackle, Thud of the falling mast. With the foam that flies and the spray that spatters, Scourging the strand again, A terrible outcry leaps and shatters— Tumult of drowning men. The steep gray cliff is alive and trembles— Was never such fear as this! A fleet, a fleet at its foot assembles Out of the sea's abyss. It quails and quivers, its grassy verges Vibrant with uttermost dread: It knows the groan of the laden surges, The shout of the deathless Dead. In a rolling march of reverberations, Marching with wind and tide, Heroes of unremembered nations Vaunt their immortal pride. Briton, Spaniard, Phœnician, Roman, Gallant implacable hosts— Locked in fight with phantom foeman, Gather the grim sea-ghosts.

In from the ocean the white fog creeps, Blotting out ship, and rock, and tree, While wrapped in its shroud, from the soundless deeps, Back to the land come the lost at sea. Over the weeping grass they drift By well-known paths to their homes again, To finger the latch they may not lift And peer through the glistering window-pane. Then in the churchyard each seeks the stone To its memory raised among the rest, And they watch by their empty graves alone Till the fog rolls back to the ocean's breast.