Chapter 3

His imaged birds and painted bowl, And venison, for a journey dressed, Bespeak the nature of the soul, Activity, that wants no rest.

His bow for action ready bent, And arrows with a head of stone, Can only mean that life is spent, And not the old ideas gone.

Thou, stranger that shalt come this way, No fraud upon the dead commit,-- Observe the swelling turf and say, They do not lie, but here they sit.

Here still a lofty rock remains, On which the curious eye may trace, (Now wasted half by wearing rains,) The fancies of a ruder race.

Here still an aged elm aspires, Beneath whose far projecting shade, (And which the shepherd still admires,) The children of the forest played.

There oft a restless Indian queen, (Pale Shebah with her braided hair,) And many a barbarous form is seen To chide the man that lingers there.

By midnight moons, o'er misting dews, In habit of the chase arrayed, The hunter still the deer pursues, The hunter and the deer--a shade!

And long shall timorous Fancy see The painted chief and pointed spear, The Reason's self shall bow the knee To shadows and delusions here.

"RANK ON RANK OF GHOSTLY SOLDIERS"

THE SONG OF SOLDIERS: WALTER DE LA MARE

As I sat musing by the frozen dyke, There was one man marching with a bright steel pike, Marching in the daylight, like a ghost came he, And behind me was the moaning and the murmur of the sea.

As I sat musing, 'twas not one but ten-- Rank on rank of ghostly soldiers marching o'er the fen, Marching in the misty air they showed in dreams to me, And behind me was the shouting and the shattering of the sea.

As I sat musing, 'twas a host in dark array, With their horses and their cannon wheeling onward to the fray, Moving like a shadow to the fate the brave must dree, And behind me roared the drums, rang the trumpets of the sea.

BY THE BLOCKHOUSE ON THE HILL: HELEN GRAY CONE

_A Ballad of Ninety-eight_

The soul of the fair young man sprang up From the earth where his body lay, And he was aware of a grim dark soul Companioning his way.

"Who are you, brother?" the fair soul said, "We wing together still!" And the soul replied that was swart and red, "The spirit of him who shot you dead By the blockhouse on the hill.

"Your men and you on the crest were first, And the last foe left was I, In the crackle of rifles I dropped and cursed, Lightning-struck as the cheer outburst And the hot charge panted nigh.

"You saw me writhe at the side of the trench; You bade--I know not what; With one last gnash, with one last wrench, I sped my last, sure shot.

"The thing that lies on the sodden ground Like a wrack of the whirlwind's track, Your men have made of the body of me, But they could not call you back!

"In that black game I won, I won! But had you worked your will, Speak now the shame that you would have done In the blockhouse under the hill!"

"God judge my men!" said the fair young soul, "He knows you tried them sore. Had He given me power to bide an hour I had wrought that they forebore.

"I bade them, ere your bullet brought This swift, this sweet release, To bear your body out of the fire That you might rest in peace."

Said the grim dark soul, "Farewell, farewell, Farewell 'twixt you and me Till they set red Judas free from Hell To kneel at the Lord Christ's knee!"

"Not so, not so," said the fair young soul, "But reach me out your hand: We two will kneel at the Lord Christ's knee, And he that was hanged on the cruel tree Will remember and understand.

"We two will pray at the Lord Christ's knee That never on earth again The breath of the hot brute guns shall cloud The sight in the eyes of men!"

The clean stars came into the sky, The perfect night was still; Yet rose to heaven the old blood-cry From the blockhouse under the hill.

NIGHT AT GETTYSBURG: DON C. SEITZ

By day Golgotha sleeps, but when night comes The army rallies to the beating drums; Columns are formed and banners wave O'er armies summoned from the grave.

The wheat field waves with reddened grain And the wounded wail and writhe in pain. The hard-held Bloody Angle drips anew And Pickett charges with a ghostly crew,

While where the road to the village turns Stands the tall shadow of old John Burns!

THE RIDERS: KATHERINE TYNAN

Rheims is down in fire and smoke, The hour of God is at the stroke,

Round and round the ruined place,-- Jesus, Mary, give us grace!

There are two riders clad in mail Silver as the moon is pale.

One is tall as a knight's spear, The younger one is lowlier.

Small and slim and like a maid-- Steeds and riders cast no shade.

Who are then these cavaliers? There was a sound as Heaven dropt tears.

Who are those who ride so light, Soundless in the flaming light,

Where Rheims burns, that was given By France to Mary, Queen of Heaven?

Oh, our Rheims, our Rheims is down, Naught is left of her renown.

Hist! what sound is in the breeze Like the sighing of forest trees?

Or the great wind, or an army, Or the waves of the wild sea?

The tall knight rides fierce and fast To the sound of a trumpet-blast.

The little knight in fire and flame, Slender and soft as a dame,

Rides and is not far behind: His long hair floats on the wind,

And ever the tramp of chivalry Comes like the sound of the sea.

This is Michael rides abroad, Prince of the army of God,

And this like a lily arrayed Is Joan, the blesséd Maid.

Rheims is down in fire and smoke And the hour of God's at the stroke.

THE WHITE COMRADE: ROBERT HAVEN SCHAUFFLER

Under our curtain of fire, Over the clotted clods, We charged, to be withered, to reel And despairingly wheel When the signal bade us retire From the terrible odds. As we ebbed with the battle-tide, Fingers of red-hot steel Suddenly closed on my side. I fell, and began to pray. I crawled on my hands and lay Where a shallow crater yawned wide; Then,--I swooned....

When I woke, it was yet day. Fierce was the pain of my wound, But I saw it was death to stir, For fifty paces away Their trenches were. In torture I prayed for the dark And the stealthy step of my friend Who, stanch to the very end, Would creep to the danger zone And offer his life as a mark To save my own.

Night fell. I heard his tread, Not stealthy, but firm and serene, As if my comrade's head Were lifted far from that scene Of passion and pain and dread; As if my comrade's heart In carnage took no part; As if my comrade's feet Were set on some radiant street Such as no darkness might haunt; As if my comrade's eyes No deluge of flame could surprise, No death and destruction daunt, No red-beaked bird dismay, Nor sight of decay.

Then in the bursting shells' dim light I saw he was clad in white. For a moment I thought that I saw the smock Of a shepherd in search of his flock. Alert were the enemy, too, And their bullets flew Straight at a mark no bullet could fail; For the seeker was tall and his robe was bright; But he did not flee nor quail. Instead, with unhurrying stride He came, And gathering my tall frame, Like a child, in his arms....

Again I slept, And awoke From a blissful dream In a cave by a stream. My silent comrade had bound my side. No pain now was mine, but a wish that I spoke,-- A mastering wish to serve this man Who had ventured through hell my doom to revoke, As only the truest of comrades can. I begged him to tell me how best I might aid him, And urgently prayed him Never to leave me, whatever betide;-- When I saw he was hurt-- Shot through the hands that were clasped in prayer! Then as the dark drops gathered there And fell in the dirt, The wounds of my friend Seemed to me such as no man might bear. Those bullet-holes in the patient hands Seemed to transcend All horrors that ever these war-drenched lands Had known or would know till the mad world's end. Then suddenly I was aware That his feet had been wounded too; And, dimming the white of his side, A dull stain grew. "You are hurt, White Comrade!" I cried. His words I already foreknew: "_These are old wounds_," said he, "_But of late they have troubled me._"

GHOSTS OF THE ARGONNE: GRANTLAND RICE

You can hear them at night when the moon is hidden; They sound like the rustle of winter leaves, Or lone lost winds that arise, unbidden, Or rain that drips from the forest eaves, As they glide again from their silent crosses To meet and talk of their final fight, Where over the group some stark tree tosses Its eerie shadow across the night.

If you'll take some night with its moonless weather, I know you will reason beyond a doubt That the rain and the wind and the leaves together Are making the sounds you will hear about: The wintry rustle of dead leaves falling, The whispering wind through the matted glen; But I can swear it's a sergeant calling The ghostly roll of his squad again.

They talk of war and its crimson glory, And laugh at the trick which Fate has played; And over and over they tell the story Of their final charge through the Argonne glade; But gathering in by hill and hollow With their ghostly tramp on the rain-soaked loam, There is one set rule which the clan must follow: They never speak of returning home.

They whisper still of the rifles' clatter, The riveting racket machine guns gave, Until dawn comes and the clan must scatter As each one glides to his waiting grave; But here at the end of their last endeavor However their stark dreams leap the foam There is one set rule they will keep forever: "Death to the Phantom who speaks of home!"

NOVEMBER ELEVENTH: RUTH COMFORT MITCHELL

It was three slim young wraiths that met in the heart of a great play-ground, And two of them watched the shining sports in the fields that ringed them round, But one of them bent an earthward ear to follow a far-off sound.

"Listen," he cried, "they _know_, down there! Oh! don't you hear the bells?" "Not I," said one, with a wise young smile, "I used to hear the shells. Not now; oh, not for ages now! I came from the Dardanelles."

"I from the Marne," the third one sighed, "but these are only names. Eh bien, mon vieux, one must forget those little strifes and fames! Here is a host of Golden Lads, that play at golden games."

But the new boy ran to the turf's green rim and bent with an anxious frown,-- "It's the curfew bell! I hear them cheer! It's my little own home town! I hear my dad! I can almost _see_--" and his eager gaze plunged down.

"Soon, mon ami," soothed the dark-eyed wraith, "these teasing dreams will cease! One plays all day, one leaps the stars, one seeks the Golden Fleece!" Still the new boy turned his white young face from the Land of the Great Release.-- "_But I was killed two hours ago, while they signed the terms of peace._"

SEA GHOSTS

THE FLYING DUTCHMAN: CHARLES GODFREY LELAND

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.

THE PHANTOM SHIP: HENRY W. LONGFELLOW

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.

THE PHANTOM LIGHT OF THE BAIE DES CHALEURS: ARTHUR WENTWORTH HAMILTON EATON

'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.

THE SANDS OF DEE: CHARLES KINGSLEY

"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!

THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP: THOMAS MOORE

"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!

THE FLYING DUTCHMAN OF THE TAPPAN ZEE: ARTHUR GUITERMAN

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.

THE WHITE SHIPS AND THE RED: JOYCE KILMER

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.

FEATHERSTONE'S DOOM: ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER

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.

SEA-GHOSTS: MAY BYRON

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,