The sun went down, the full moon rose, Serene o'er field and flood;And all the winding creeks and bays And broad sea-meadows seemed ablaze, The sky was red as blood.
The southwest wind blew fresh and fair, As fair as wind could be;Bound for Odessa, o'er the bar, With all sail set, the Valdemar Went proudly out to sea.
The lovely moon climbs up the sky As one who walks in dreams;A tower of marble in her light, A wall of black, a wall of white, The stately vessel seems.
Low down upon the sandy coast The lights begin to burn;And now, uplifted high in air, They kindle with a fiercer glare, And now drop far astern.
The dawn appears, the land is gone, The sea is all around;Then on each hand low hills of sand Emerge and form another land;She steereth through the Sound.
Through Kattegat and Skager-rack She flitteth like a ghost;By day and night, by night and day, She bounds, she flies upon her way Along the English coast.
Cape Finisterre is drawing near, Cape Finisterre is past;Into the open ocean stream She floats, the vision of a dream Too beautiful to last.
Suns rise and set, and rise, and yet There is no land in sight;The liquid planets overhead Burn brighter now the moon is dead, And longer stays the night.
IV
And now along the horizon's edge Mountains of cloud uprose, Black as with forests underneath, Above their sharp and jagged teeth Were white as drifted snows.
Unseen behind them sank the sun, But flushed each snowy peak A little while with rosy light That faded slowly from the sight As blushes from the cheek.
Black grew the sky,--all black, all black;The clouds were everywhere;
There was a feeling of suspense In nature, a mysterious sense Of terror in the air.
And all on board the Valdemar Was still as still could be;Save when the dismal ship-bell tolled, As ever and anon she rolled, And lurched into the sea.
The captain up and down the deck Went striding to and fro;Now watched the compass at the wheel, Now lifted up his hand to feel Which way the wind might blow.
And now he looked up at the sails, And now upon the deep;In every fibre of his frame He felt the storm before it came, He had no thought of sleep.
Eight bells! and suddenly abaft, With a great rush of rain, Making the ocean white with spume, In darkness like the day of doom, On came the hurricane.
The lightning flashed from cloud to cloud, And rent the sky in two;A jagged flame, a single jet Of white fire, like a bayonet That pierced the eyeballs through.
Then all around was dark again, And blacker than before;But in that single flash of light He had beheld a fearful sight, And thought of the oath he swore.
For right ahead lay the Ship of the Dead, The ghostly Carmilhan!
Her masts were stripped, her yards were bare, And on her bowsprit, poised in air, Sat the Klaboterman.
Her crew of ghosts was all on deck Or clambering up the shrouds;The boatswain's whistle, the captain's hail, Were like the piping of the gale, And thunder in the clouds.
And close behind the Carmilhan There rose up from the sea, As from a foundered ship of stone, Three bare and splintered masts alone:
They were the Chimneys Three.
And onward dashed the Valdemar And leaped into the dark;A denser mist, a colder blast, A little shudder, and she had passed Right through the Phantom Bark.
She cleft in twain the shadowy hulk, But cleft it unaware;As when, careering to her nest, The sea-gull severs with her breast The unresisting air.
Again the lightning flashed; again They saw the Carmilhan, Whole as before in hull and spar;But now on board of the Valdemar Stood the Klaboterman.
And they all knew their doom was sealed;
They knew that death was near;
Some prayed who never prayed before, And some they wept, and some they swore, And some were mute with fear.
Then suddenly there came a shock, And louder than wind or sea A cry burst from the crew on deck, As she dashed and crashed, a hopeless wreck, Upon the Chimneys Three.
The storm and night were passed, the light To streak the east began;The cabin-boy, picked up at sea, Survived the wreck, and only he, To tell of the Carmilhan.
INTERLUDE
When the long murmur of applause That greeted the Musician's lay Had slowly buzzed itself away, And the long talk of Spectre Ships That followed died upon their lips And came unto a natural pause, "These tales you tell are one and all Of the Old World," the Poet said, "Flowers gathered from a crumbling wall, Dead leaves that rustle as they fall;Let me present you in their stead Something of our New England earth, A tale which, though of no great worth, Has still this merit, that it yields A certain freshness of the fields, A sweetness as of home-made bread."The Student answered: "Be discreet;
For if the flour be fresh and sound, And if the bread be light and sweet, Who careth in what mill 't was ground, Or of what oven felt the heat, Unless, as old Cervantes said, You are looking after better bread Than any that is made of wheat?
You know that people nowadays To what is old give little praise;All must be new in prose and verse:
They want hot bread, or something worse, Fresh every morning, and half baked;The wholesome bread of yesterday, Too stale for them, is thrown away, Nor is their thirst with water slaked.
As oft we see the sky in May Threaten to rain, and yet not rain, The Poet's face, before so gay, Was clouded with a look of pain, But suddenly brightened up again;And without further let or stay He told his tale of yesterday.
THE POET'S TALE
LADY WENTWORTH.
One hundred years ago, and something more, In Queen Street, Portsmouth, at her tavern door, Neat as a pin, and blooming as a rose, Stood Mistress Stavers in her furbelows, Just as her cuckoo-clock was striking nine.
Above her head, resplendent on the sign, The portrait of the Earl of Halifax, In scarlet coat and periwig of flax, Surveyed at leisure all her varied charms, Her cap, her bodice, her white folded arms, And half resolved, though he was past his prime, And rather damaged by the lapse of time, To fall down at her feet and to declare The passion that had driven him to despair.
