 | Poems descriptive, dramatic, legendary and contemplative |  |
294
THE SHIP OF THE PALATINES.
[_]
The tradition upon which the following legend is founded, is still, at the present day, somewhat current in the “Old North State.” Within the last twenty years, indeed, we have seen in the newspapers a statement of the reappearance of the spectre ship of the Palatines, “all a-fire,” and have been edified with the affidavits of good citizens, so solemnly impressed with the truth of the apparition, that they have not scrupled to make oath to the fact before the magistrates. The tradition—it will hardly escape the literary reader—is somewhat like that upon which Dana founds his poem of the “Buccancer;” but it is of simpler structure, and not the less suitable, perhaps, because of its simplicity, for metrical purposes. I have treated it according to the tradition, without seeking to graft upon it any of my own inventions.
A shaft of sudden light, as if a glance,
Shot from the fiery eyes of sinking day,
Lights the green edges of the western wave,
And purples it with beauty. Yet the sun
Now flames on Asian summits. Midnight sways
His abdicated realm upon our shores,
And his successor, the pursuing moon,
Hath vanish'd in his wake. A cloudy veil
Hangs o'er her mansion, and the twiring stars
Grow dim along her track. Once more that blaze,
A sulphury column o'er the midnight waste,
Darts upward and prolongs a fitful glow,
Leaping from wave to wave.
“A ship on fire,
Crowd sail, and let us reach it!”
Thus the cry
Ran through our vessel, and each straining eye,
Piercing the solid depth of dark between,
Beheld—through fancies that with quicken'd birth,
Peopled all the scene with persons at their need—
The wreck'd and perishing wretches,—the strong man,
And trembling woman, and unconscious child,
As, hanging o'er the eternal precipice,
They cried to Heaven for succor,—cried and sank!—
Preferring the sure sentence of the deep,
To that dread doom, that, darting on their steps,
With thousand forkéd, fiery tongues pursued!
Shot from the fiery eyes of sinking day,
Lights the green edges of the western wave,
And purples it with beauty. Yet the sun
Now flames on Asian summits. Midnight sways
His abdicated realm upon our shores,
And his successor, the pursuing moon,
Hath vanish'd in his wake. A cloudy veil
Hangs o'er her mansion, and the twiring stars
Grow dim along her track. Once more that blaze,
A sulphury column o'er the midnight waste,
Darts upward and prolongs a fitful glow,
Leaping from wave to wave.
“A ship on fire,
Crowd sail, and let us reach it!”
Thus the cry
Ran through our vessel, and each straining eye,
Piercing the solid depth of dark between,
295
Peopled all the scene with persons at their need—
The wreck'd and perishing wretches,—the strong man,
And trembling woman, and unconscious child,
As, hanging o'er the eternal precipice,
They cried to Heaven for succor,—cried and sank!—
Preferring the sure sentence of the deep,
To that dread doom, that, darting on their steps,
With thousand forkéd, fiery tongues pursued!
One moment of deep terror!—but the hand
Touch'd not the cordage. The uplifted voice,
Of order, lapsed in silence. It was gone,
That sudden blaze, as suddenly; and night,
A vast and shapeless shadow, frown'd in place.
Yet was the semblance, to each eye that saw,
A burning vessel, a majestic barque,
Limm'd in consuming flame—erect, yet doom'd—
From gunwale up to top, from stem to stern,
In fiery lines articulate and clear,
Each spar, and shaft, and lineament a-blaze,
Glorious in ruin!
Thus, in western wilds,
The traveller, in belated journey, sees
A vision of destruction,—not like this
A vision only; but reality,
So wildly, terribly beautiful, as takes
Possession of all senses. The tall wood
Is traversed by a tempest of bright flame,
That, coursing far, on seraph wing, defies
Restraint; leaps up to the inflammable pine,
And fastens, like a tiger, on its heart.
The monarch tree, with sky achieving spire,
And limbs spread out like patriarchal arms,
Exchanging all its garniture of green,
Is clothed in fiercest crimson—kingly shroud
For more than kingly shape. The mighty shaft,
Consuming, yet unshrinking!—the broad limbs
Blazing, but still extended—while the vine,
Supported long on those paternal arms,
Crackles, and curls, and shrivels, in the flame,
Like cordage on the vessel lately gone.
Touch'd not the cordage. The uplifted voice,
Of order, lapsed in silence. It was gone,
That sudden blaze, as suddenly; and night,
A vast and shapeless shadow, frown'd in place.
Yet was the semblance, to each eye that saw,
A burning vessel, a majestic barque,
Limm'd in consuming flame—erect, yet doom'd—
From gunwale up to top, from stem to stern,
In fiery lines articulate and clear,
Each spar, and shaft, and lineament a-blaze,
Glorious in ruin!
Thus, in western wilds,
The traveller, in belated journey, sees
A vision of destruction,—not like this
A vision only; but reality,
So wildly, terribly beautiful, as takes
Possession of all senses. The tall wood
Is traversed by a tempest of bright flame,
That, coursing far, on seraph wing, defies
Restraint; leaps up to the inflammable pine,
And fastens, like a tiger, on its heart.
The monarch tree, with sky achieving spire,
And limbs spread out like patriarchal arms,
Exchanging all its garniture of green,
296
For more than kingly shape. The mighty shaft,
Consuming, yet unshrinking!—the broad limbs
Blazing, but still extended—while the vine,
Supported long on those paternal arms,
Crackles, and curls, and shrivels, in the flame,
Like cordage on the vessel lately gone.
There is a deep and serious faith in man,
Nursed in his secret soul, and strengthen'd there,
By numerous stern and solemn instances,
That finds a latent but close sympathy,
Betwixt his own and that mysterious world
To which our shadows hasten. Earth may cloud,
Not wholly darken, that superior light
Which burns within us. This, immortal hands
Trim nightly; and upon our startled ken,
Purged of its sullen and unfruitful humors,
Betray brief glimpses of the thing that was,
And thing that may be. Purposes of dread,
To us, obscure and wondrous—not for us
To fathom or examine—in HIS will,
Whose will is monarch over all that lives,
Life's single source and Sov'reign,—rise in forms
That soothe, or awe, or waken—shake with fright,
Or startle into meritorious deed
And righteous duty. Innocence o'erborne,
Finds succor when most fearful; wan Despair
Grows hopeful, though the gleam upon his eye,
That wins him, with new confidence, to life,
Be germined by the vaporous fogs that rise
From ancient charnels and forbidden graves,
Where rot the unknown race;—and crime that lurks,
Ever in dread, a thing of hate and fear,
Is dragg'd to make confession of his guilt
By some inexorable shade,—some shape—
That moves the unwitting tongue, the unwilling hand,
In inauspicious moment, to betray
The one dread secret. Murder will come out,
And find a voice, and challenge scrutiny,
Though seas roll o'er the victim, and long years
Brood o'er the terrible hour that saw the deed!
Nursed in his secret soul, and strengthen'd there,
By numerous stern and solemn instances,
That finds a latent but close sympathy,
Betwixt his own and that mysterious world
To which our shadows hasten. Earth may cloud,
Not wholly darken, that superior light
Which burns within us. This, immortal hands
Trim nightly; and upon our startled ken,
Purged of its sullen and unfruitful humors,
Betray brief glimpses of the thing that was,
And thing that may be. Purposes of dread,
To us, obscure and wondrous—not for us
To fathom or examine—in HIS will,
Whose will is monarch over all that lives,
Life's single source and Sov'reign,—rise in forms
That soothe, or awe, or waken—shake with fright,
Or startle into meritorious deed
And righteous duty. Innocence o'erborne,
Finds succor when most fearful; wan Despair
Grows hopeful, though the gleam upon his eye,
That wins him, with new confidence, to life,
Be germined by the vaporous fogs that rise
From ancient charnels and forbidden graves,
Where rot the unknown race;—and crime that lurks,
Ever in dread, a thing of hate and fear,
Is dragg'd to make confession of his guilt
297
That moves the unwitting tongue, the unwilling hand,
In inauspicious moment, to betray
The one dread secret. Murder will come out,
And find a voice, and challenge scrutiny,
Though seas roll o'er the victim, and long years
Brood o'er the terrible hour that saw the deed!
There is a wild tradition of these shores,
Still told by ancient men,—who, in such blaze
As that which lately dazzled and withdrew,
See but a phantom beacon, set by heaven,
To mark the period and the place of crime.
Familiar to their eyes that spectral light,
With each returning year; and learned scribes
Have set their hands and signets to the tale
In solemn record.
Once upon a time—
Thus runs the story—ere our fathers yet
Flung off the sway of British sov'reignty,
A little band of German Palatines,
Having fond hopes from change—it may be, lured
By vague, wild dreams of freedom,—left their homes,
And charter'd a frail vessel, which they fill'd
With wives, and sons, and daughters,—all their wealth
Of family and treasure. But the last
They screen'd from curious eyes, and, meanly garb'd,
No other seem'd than helpless destitutes,
Bless'd if the pittance, needful for the day,
Were, by the hand of charity, bestowed.
Thus habited—thus lowly in the sight
Of strangers they embark'd. They cross'd the seas,—
God smiled upon their voyage, till the shores
Of Carolina, gathering on their gaze,
Rose up in welcome, on the ocean's marge.
Then joy was in their hearts. The smiling sun
Look'd on them from blue summits. Green, the groves
Woo'd them with promised shelter; while the fruits,—
Fragrant and purple, that, in southern lands,
Spring, undemanding labor, at the word
Of sweet and sovereign nature,—to their glance
Made all one Eden. Joy, in every heart,
Burst forth from tongue and eye;—and children all,
Thus gladden'd, they forgot the prudent cares
That garb'd them late in seeming poverty.
The peril of the seas was at an end—
Their world before them. They had homes to build,
And time was precious;—wherefore then delay?
They brought their stores to light. Their eager hands
Unveil'd their treasures. Little family gauds,
Of gold and jewels, hidden through the past,
Long centuries of danger and distress,
Display'd by happy hands—on heaving hearts,—
And cups of silver in more precious grasp
Of dearest children. Confident, at last,
Of fortune,—in the hope that, baffled long,
No more could be denied—they yielded them
To every sweet assurance.
“With the morn,”
Thus rang their eager voices in all ears,
With iteration fond, rehearsing hope,—
“Our feet shall tread these shores—our fingers pluck
Their fruits—our forms beneath yon sacred shade
Of forests, that have felt no hand but heaven's,
Catch precious dews of slumber. Heaven be praised,—
For its dear mercies—for this best of all!”
Still told by ancient men,—who, in such blaze
As that which lately dazzled and withdrew,
See but a phantom beacon, set by heaven,
To mark the period and the place of crime.
Familiar to their eyes that spectral light,
With each returning year; and learned scribes
Have set their hands and signets to the tale
In solemn record.
Once upon a time—
Thus runs the story—ere our fathers yet
Flung off the sway of British sov'reignty,
A little band of German Palatines,
Having fond hopes from change—it may be, lured
By vague, wild dreams of freedom,—left their homes,
And charter'd a frail vessel, which they fill'd
With wives, and sons, and daughters,—all their wealth
Of family and treasure. But the last
They screen'd from curious eyes, and, meanly garb'd,
No other seem'd than helpless destitutes,
Bless'd if the pittance, needful for the day,
Were, by the hand of charity, bestowed.
Thus habited—thus lowly in the sight
Of strangers they embark'd. They cross'd the seas,—
God smiled upon their voyage, till the shores
298
Rose up in welcome, on the ocean's marge.
Then joy was in their hearts. The smiling sun
Look'd on them from blue summits. Green, the groves
Woo'd them with promised shelter; while the fruits,—
Fragrant and purple, that, in southern lands,
Spring, undemanding labor, at the word
Of sweet and sovereign nature,—to their glance
Made all one Eden. Joy, in every heart,
Burst forth from tongue and eye;—and children all,
Thus gladden'd, they forgot the prudent cares
That garb'd them late in seeming poverty.
The peril of the seas was at an end—
Their world before them. They had homes to build,
And time was precious;—wherefore then delay?
They brought their stores to light. Their eager hands
Unveil'd their treasures. Little family gauds,
Of gold and jewels, hidden through the past,
Long centuries of danger and distress,
Display'd by happy hands—on heaving hearts,—
And cups of silver in more precious grasp
Of dearest children. Confident, at last,
Of fortune,—in the hope that, baffled long,
No more could be denied—they yielded them
To every sweet assurance.
“With the morn,”
Thus rang their eager voices in all ears,
With iteration fond, rehearsing hope,—
“Our feet shall tread these shores—our fingers pluck
Their fruits—our forms beneath yon sacred shade
Of forests, that have felt no hand but heaven's,
Catch precious dews of slumber. Heaven be praised,—
For its dear mercies—for this best of all!”
Thus, like fond children, full of fresh delights,
In little groups, they throng'd the vessel's deck,
Each glad with pleasant purposes—his toils,
His petty schemes of future happiness—
Where build, what plant, what hours to care devote,
And what to recreation—what the flowers
Of this new world;—and—these were maiden thoughts—
How sweet, when garlanded with blue and pink
The evening dance beneath the spreading oak,
Love darting keenest glances from the grove,
And, in its shadow, weaving subtlest charms
To soothe and still subdue half-willing hearts!
Thus dreaming each, with some particular joy
To feed on, as the soul's best nutriment,
They mused together; framing at the last,
For absent dear ones in the father-land,
Glowing dispatches, in whose bright details
Hopes in a moment grew to certainties—
With fond entreaties to the ancient sire,
And timorous grand-dame, doubtful of the seas,
To follow, and their forest-homes partake.
299
Each glad with pleasant purposes—his toils,
His petty schemes of future happiness—
Where build, what plant, what hours to care devote,
And what to recreation—what the flowers
Of this new world;—and—these were maiden thoughts—
How sweet, when garlanded with blue and pink
The evening dance beneath the spreading oak,
Love darting keenest glances from the grove,
And, in its shadow, weaving subtlest charms
To soothe and still subdue half-willing hearts!
Thus dreaming each, with some particular joy
To feed on, as the soul's best nutriment,
They mused together; framing at the last,
For absent dear ones in the father-land,
Glowing dispatches, in whose bright details
Hopes in a moment grew to certainties—
With fond entreaties to the ancient sire,
And timorous grand-dame, doubtful of the seas,
To follow, and their forest-homes partake.
Noon pass'd, and evening came, and courtly night,
With all her proud, but pale patrician throng,
Sweet, but how stately! Lingering to the last,
While yet the shores lay visible to sight,
Our blue-eyed wanderers hung with eager eyes
Upon the yellow sands, the green-plumed pines,
Tall warriors, set as watchers on the deep,
In close array and serried rank and file.
But, with the darkness they withdrew—with hearts
How joyful—with a thousand hopes in one,
And that how full of child-significance,
In the one word—“To-morrow!”
But to them,
That morrow, with its wealth of promises,
Came never! Fatal was their sad mistake—
That vain display of treasure, shown to eyes
Which gloated, with an eager, fierce delight,
On the bright vision. In the master's heart
Rose up the hungry fiend of avarice;—
A greedy pang, a lust that had no fear,
Work'd fearfully within him. In his eyes
Glitter'd the secret thirst, that might have taught,
Meet prudence to his simple passengers,
Had they been vigilant watchers with their eyes,
Less greedy than their hearts. But they had grown
Suspicionless beneath prosperity;
Saw not the malice—had no instinct dread
Of that so sudden passion which should work,
Even in the moment of their sweetest hope,
For their destruction. From their eyes he shrank,
The master—sought his cabin—conn'd his charts—
Fled from temptation—but his brooding thought
Clung to the one possession. Through the day,
A single image glanced before his gaze,
Of all those golden spoils within his grasp,
Blinding and dazzling; baffling the better nature
Stifling the pleading conscience, and with iron,
Of heated avarice, searing Pity's eyes.
He had no other thought. Within his ears,
Ever a single voice was whispering—
So softly, so soliciting!—that said,—
“Midnight will hide the deed—an hour is all—
Wherefore thy terror—thou shouldst be a man,
And make thyself forever!”
'Twas enough!
The demon triumph'd. Then the master sought
His crew, and with like argument o'ercame
The germ of mercy in their stubborn souls.
They swore, with linkéd hands, a horrid oath,
Fidelity, in blood, to one another—
And hell,—and then they whisper'd o'er their plans
Of cruelty and safety. With the night,
When darkness fill'd the close abode where slept
Their wearied victims,—silently they stole,
Each to his hateful task. With stealthy care
The fatal knife was lifted o'er the breast
Of each strong sleeper. At a signal given,
They struck, and struck together,—but one blow—
And writhing, but scarce shrieking in his pain,
The sleeper slept forever. One hoarse cry,
Stifled in utterance,—one spasmodic fling
Of upward striving arms,—and all was hush'd
In burdensome silence;—so oppressive then,
That the fierce criminal, shuddering at his post,
Paused, hopeful, that his victim still might groan,
And half implored the mercy of the struggle,
That he might feel the deed was yet undone!
But brief cessation from their bloody toils
Claim'd terror. Conscience flung aside and hush'd—
Then follow'd the last dreadful sacrifice!—
Women and children—shrieking innocents,
Pleading and clinging to their murderers,
And wondering that the father came not nigh—
The husband, brother,—while the threat'ning blade,
Blood-dripping gleam'd above their dying eyes.
All perish'd—prayer and supplication vain—
Mammon to Moloch made his sacrifice,
And, elbow-deep in blood, the murderers,
Stood cowering within the darkness, half afraid,
Lest, through the hold, the innocent starry eyes
Summon'd to look by each escaping soul,
Might pierce, in passing, and lay bare the deed.
A moment, and in contemplation brief,
The criminals found resolve. With hurried toils,
They gather'd up the wealth, whose fatal lures,
Had won them to the guilt of bloody hands,
And, with their ill-got treasure made secure,
They hasten'd to their boats. But first, to hide
All traces of their footsteps and their crime,
They plied with busy care the blazing brand;
And in the bowels of the fated ship,
Left flaming torches. Speeding to the shore,
They watch'd the fierce destruction. From the hold,
Shot up, in thousand tongues and jets of fire,
The raging flames ascended. On the masts,
The deck, the gunwale, spars and sails, they seized,
With sudden fury. All a-blaze, the ship
Darted along the deep, a form complete,
Complex in lineament, but subtly wrought
In lines of blazing light. And thus she sped—
No wind impelling—close beside the shore,
Where stood the gasping criminals—their eyes,
Wide-staring on that wond'rous spectacle.
Thus, to and fro, the livelong night she went,
They watching still, incapable of flight.
By day, a charr'd and dismal skeleton,
She frown'd upon them, as, in restless drift,
She floated slowly by the yellow sands—
Now gone from sight, now suddenly, once more,
Gliding above the self-same dreary spot
Which saw the deed most dark and damnable!
All day, as by some awful spell enchain'd,
They linger'd by the shore. Now, in the wood,
Hiding their trembling forms—now, peering forth,
With the deceitful hope that, from their eyes,
The dreaded sight was gone,—beneath the wave,
Hiding their secret. But when night once more
Swept with starr'd train along the accustom'd march,
Again the spectre vessel heaves in sight;—
The bright flames darting upwards, spreading fast
O'er sails, spars, cordage! Blazing as before,
Yet unconsuming still, the phantom barque
Bears right for shore. Too terrible the sight
Upon the eyes of those most wretched men.
They fled,—and in the forest wilderness,
'Mongst beasts of prey, and tribes more savage still,
Buried their heads, their secret and their hopes—
Never their fears! Years, generations pass'd:—
The living are the dead! What fate befel
These hapless and still hopeless criminals,
The chronicles reveal not;—but the tale,
Still told by wise and venerable men,
Declared they went unpunish'd, save by God,—
And that the spectre vessel, still a-blaze,
Upon that fearful anniversary,
Appears with night, and still must re-appear,
Until, upon each man child, from the loins
Of those most bloody men, the avenger's hand
Hath fatally fallen,—when the spectre ship,
Her work complete, all blazing as she goes,
Shall lay her aching ribs in ocean's caves!
With all her proud, but pale patrician throng,
Sweet, but how stately! Lingering to the last,
While yet the shores lay visible to sight,
Our blue-eyed wanderers hung with eager eyes
Upon the yellow sands, the green-plumed pines,
Tall warriors, set as watchers on the deep,
In close array and serried rank and file.
But, with the darkness they withdrew—with hearts
How joyful—with a thousand hopes in one,
And that how full of child-significance,
In the one word—“To-morrow!”
But to them,
That morrow, with its wealth of promises,
300
That vain display of treasure, shown to eyes
Which gloated, with an eager, fierce delight,
On the bright vision. In the master's heart
Rose up the hungry fiend of avarice;—
A greedy pang, a lust that had no fear,
Work'd fearfully within him. In his eyes
Glitter'd the secret thirst, that might have taught,
Meet prudence to his simple passengers,
Had they been vigilant watchers with their eyes,
Less greedy than their hearts. But they had grown
Suspicionless beneath prosperity;
Saw not the malice—had no instinct dread
Of that so sudden passion which should work,
Even in the moment of their sweetest hope,
For their destruction. From their eyes he shrank,
The master—sought his cabin—conn'd his charts—
Fled from temptation—but his brooding thought
Clung to the one possession. Through the day,
A single image glanced before his gaze,
Of all those golden spoils within his grasp,
Blinding and dazzling; baffling the better nature
Stifling the pleading conscience, and with iron,
Of heated avarice, searing Pity's eyes.
He had no other thought. Within his ears,
Ever a single voice was whispering—
So softly, so soliciting!—that said,—
“Midnight will hide the deed—an hour is all—
Wherefore thy terror—thou shouldst be a man,
And make thyself forever!”
'Twas enough!
The demon triumph'd. Then the master sought
His crew, and with like argument o'ercame
The germ of mercy in their stubborn souls.
301
Fidelity, in blood, to one another—
And hell,—and then they whisper'd o'er their plans
Of cruelty and safety. With the night,
When darkness fill'd the close abode where slept
Their wearied victims,—silently they stole,
Each to his hateful task. With stealthy care
The fatal knife was lifted o'er the breast
Of each strong sleeper. At a signal given,
They struck, and struck together,—but one blow—
And writhing, but scarce shrieking in his pain,
The sleeper slept forever. One hoarse cry,
Stifled in utterance,—one spasmodic fling
Of upward striving arms,—and all was hush'd
In burdensome silence;—so oppressive then,
That the fierce criminal, shuddering at his post,
Paused, hopeful, that his victim still might groan,
And half implored the mercy of the struggle,
That he might feel the deed was yet undone!
But brief cessation from their bloody toils
Claim'd terror. Conscience flung aside and hush'd—
Then follow'd the last dreadful sacrifice!—
Women and children—shrieking innocents,
Pleading and clinging to their murderers,
And wondering that the father came not nigh—
The husband, brother,—while the threat'ning blade,
Blood-dripping gleam'd above their dying eyes.
All perish'd—prayer and supplication vain—
Mammon to Moloch made his sacrifice,
And, elbow-deep in blood, the murderers,
Stood cowering within the darkness, half afraid,
Lest, through the hold, the innocent starry eyes
Summon'd to look by each escaping soul,
Might pierce, in passing, and lay bare the deed.
302
The criminals found resolve. With hurried toils,
They gather'd up the wealth, whose fatal lures,
Had won them to the guilt of bloody hands,
And, with their ill-got treasure made secure,
They hasten'd to their boats. But first, to hide
All traces of their footsteps and their crime,
They plied with busy care the blazing brand;
And in the bowels of the fated ship,
Left flaming torches. Speeding to the shore,
They watch'd the fierce destruction. From the hold,
Shot up, in thousand tongues and jets of fire,
The raging flames ascended. On the masts,
The deck, the gunwale, spars and sails, they seized,
With sudden fury. All a-blaze, the ship
Darted along the deep, a form complete,
Complex in lineament, but subtly wrought
In lines of blazing light. And thus she sped—
No wind impelling—close beside the shore,
Where stood the gasping criminals—their eyes,
Wide-staring on that wond'rous spectacle.
Thus, to and fro, the livelong night she went,
They watching still, incapable of flight.
By day, a charr'd and dismal skeleton,
She frown'd upon them, as, in restless drift,
She floated slowly by the yellow sands—
Now gone from sight, now suddenly, once more,
Gliding above the self-same dreary spot
Which saw the deed most dark and damnable!
All day, as by some awful spell enchain'd,
They linger'd by the shore. Now, in the wood,
Hiding their trembling forms—now, peering forth,
With the deceitful hope that, from their eyes,
The dreaded sight was gone,—beneath the wave,
303
Swept with starr'd train along the accustom'd march,
Again the spectre vessel heaves in sight;—
The bright flames darting upwards, spreading fast
O'er sails, spars, cordage! Blazing as before,
Yet unconsuming still, the phantom barque
Bears right for shore. Too terrible the sight
Upon the eyes of those most wretched men.
They fled,—and in the forest wilderness,
'Mongst beasts of prey, and tribes more savage still,
Buried their heads, their secret and their hopes—
Never their fears! Years, generations pass'd:—
The living are the dead! What fate befel
These hapless and still hopeless criminals,
The chronicles reveal not;—but the tale,
Still told by wise and venerable men,
Declared they went unpunish'd, save by God,—
And that the spectre vessel, still a-blaze,
Upon that fearful anniversary,
Appears with night, and still must re-appear,
Until, upon each man child, from the loins
Of those most bloody men, the avenger's hand
Hath fatally fallen,—when the spectre ship,
Her work complete, all blazing as she goes,
Shall lay her aching ribs in ocean's caves!
| Poems descriptive, dramatic, legendary and contemplative | |