Part 3

She rounds the headland's bristling pines; She threads the isle-set bay; No spur of breeze can speed her on, Nor ebb of tide delay. Old men still walk the Isle of Orr Who tell her date and name, Old shipwrights sit in Freeport yards Who hewed her oaken frame.

What weary doom of baffled quest, Thou sad sea-ghost, is thine? What makes thee in the haunts of home A wonder and a sign? No foot is on thy silent deck, Upon thy helm no hand; No ripple hath the soundless wind That smites thee from the land!

For never comes the ship to port, Howe'er the breeze may be; Just when she nears the waiting shore She drifts again to sea. No tack of sail, nor turn of helm, Nor sheer of veering side; Stern-fore she drives to sea and night, Against the wind and tide.

In vain o'er Harpswell Neck the star Of evening guides her in; In vain for her the lamps are lit Within thy tower, Seguin! In vain the harbor-boat shall hail, In vain the pilot call; No hand shall reef her spectral sail, Or let her anchor fall.

Shake, brown old wives, with dreary joy, Your gray-head hints of ill; And, over sick-beds whispering low, Your prophecies fulfil. Some home amid yon birchen trees Shall drape its door with woe; And slowly where the Dead Ship sails, The burial boat shall row!

From Wolf Neck and from Flying Point, From island and from main, From sheltered cove and tided creek, Shall glide the funeral train. The dead-boat with the bearers four, The mourners at her stern,-- And one shall go the silent way Who shall no more return!

And men shall sigh, and women weep, Whose dear ones pale and pine, And sadly over sunset seas Await the ghostly sign. They know not that its sails are filled By pity's tender breath, Nor see the Angel at the helm Who steers the Ship of Death! 1866.

. . . . .

"Chill as a down-east breeze should be," The Book-man said. "A ghostly touch The legend has. I'm glad to see Your flying Yankee beat the Dutch." "Well, here is something of the sort Which one midsummer day I caught In Narragansett Bay, for lack of fish." "We wait," the Traveller said; "serve hot or cold your dish."

THE PALATINE.

Block Island in Long Island Sound, called by the Indians Manisees, the isle of the little god, was the scene of a tragic incident a hundred years or more ago, when _The Palatine_, an emigrant ship bound for Philadelphia, driven off its course, came upon the coast at this point. A mutiny on board, followed by an inhuman desertion on the part of the crew, had brought the unhappy passengers to the verge of starvation and madness. Tradition says that wreckers on shore, after rescuing all but one of the survivors, set fire to the vessel, which was driven out to sea before a gale which had sprung up. Every twelvemonth, according to the same tradition, the spectacle of a ship on fire is visible to the inhabitants of the island.

Leagues north, as fly the gull and auk, Point Judith watches with eye of hawk; Leagues south, thy beacon flames, Montauk!

Lonely and wind-shorn, wood-forsaken, With never a tree for Spring to waken, For tryst of lovers or farewells taken,

Circled by waters that never freeze, Beaten by billow and swept by breeze, Lieth the island of Manisees,

Set at the mouth of the Sound to hold The coast lights up on its turret old, Yellow with moss and sea-fog mould.

Dreary the land when gust and sleet At its doors and windows howl and beat, And Winter laughs at its fires of peat!

But in summer time, when pool and pond, Held in the laps of valleys fond, Are blue as the glimpses of sea beyond;

When the hills are sweet with the brier-rose, And, hid in the warm, soft dells, unclose Flowers the mainland rarely knows;

When boats to their morning fishing go, And, held to the wind and slanting low, Whitening and darkening the small sails show,--

Then is that lonely island fair; And the pale health-seeker findeth there The wine of life in its pleasant air.

No greener valleys the sun invite, On smoother beaches no sea-birds light, No blue waves shatter to foam more white!

There, circling ever their narrow range, Quaint tradition and legend strange Live on unchallenged, and know no change.

Old wives spinning their webs of tow, Or rocking weirdly to and fro In and out of the peat's dull glow,

And old men mending their nets of twine, Talk together of dream and sign, Talk of the lost ship Palatine,--

The ship that, a hundred years before, Freighted deep with its goodly store, In the gales of the equinox went ashore.

The eager islanders one by one Counted the shots of her signal gun, And heard the crash when she drove right on!

Into the teeth of death she sped (May God forgive the hands that fed The false lights over the rocky Head!)

O men and brothers! what sights were there! White upturned faces, hands stretched in prayer! Where waves had pity, could ye not spare?

Down swooped the wreckers, like birds of prey Tearing the heart of the ship away, And the dead had never a word to say.

And then, with ghastly shimmer and shine Over the rocks and the seething brine, They burned the wreck of the Palatine.

In their cruel hearts, as they homeward sped, "The sea and the rocks are dumb," they said "There 'll be no reckoning with the dead."

But the year went round, and when once more Along their foam-white curves of shore They heard the line-storm rave and roar,

Behold! again, with shimmer and shine, Over the rocks and the seething brine, The flaming wreck of the Palatine!

So, haply in fitter words than these, Mending their nets on their patient knees They tell the legend of Manisees.

Nor looks nor tones a doubt betray; "It is known to us all," they quietly say; "We too have seen it in our day."

Is there, then, no death for a word once spoken? Was never a deed but left its token Written on tables never broken?

Do the elements subtle reflections give? Do pictures of all the ages live On Nature's infinite negative,

Which, half in sport, in malice half, She shows at times, with shudder or laugh, Phantom and shadow in photograph?

For still, on many a moonless night, From Kingston Head and from Montauk light The spectre kindles and burns in sight.

Now low and dim, now clear and higher, Leaps up the terrible Ghost of Fire, Then, slowly sinking, the flames expire.

And the wise Sound skippers, though skies be fine, Reef their sails when they see the sign Of the blazing wreck of the Palatine! 1867.

. . . . .

"A fitter tale to scream than sing," The Book-man said. "Well, fancy, then," The Reader answered, "on the wing The sea-birds shriek it, not for men, But in the ear of wave and breeze!" The Traveller mused: "Your Manisees Is fairy-land: off Narragansett shore Who ever saw the isle or heard its name before?

"'T is some strange land of Flyaway, Whose dreamy shore the ship beguiles, St. Brandan's in its sea-mist gray, Or sunset loom of Fortunate Isles!" "No ghost, but solid turf and rock Is the good island known as Block," The Reader said. "For beauty and for ease I chose its Indian name, soft-flowing Manisees!

"But let it pass; here is a bit Of unrhymed story, with a hint Of the old preaching mood in it, The sort of sidelong moral squint Our friend objects to, which has grown, I fear, a habit of my own. 'Twas written when the Asian plague drew near, And the land held its breath and paled with sudden fear."

ABRAHAM DAVENPORT

The famous Dark Day of New England, May 19, 1780, was a physical puzzle for many years to our ancestors, but its occurrence brought something more than philosophical speculation into the winds of those who passed through it. The incident of Colonel Abraham Davenport's sturdy protest is a matter of history.

In the old days (a custom laid aside With breeches and cocked hats) the people sent Their wisest men to make the public laws. And so, from a brown homestead, where the Sound Drinks the small tribute of the Mianas, Waved over by the woods of Rippowams, And hallowed by pure lives and tranquil deaths, Stamford sent up to the councils of the State Wisdom and grace in Abraham Davenport.

'T was on a May-day of the far old year Seventeen hundred eighty, that there fell Over the bloom and sweet life of the Spring, Over the fresh earth and the heaven of noon, A horror of great darkness, like the night In day of which the Norland sagas tell,--

The Twilight of the Gods. The low-hung sky Was black with ominous clouds, save where its rim Was fringed with a dull glow, like that which climbs The crater's sides from the red hell below. Birds ceased to sing, and all the barn-yard fowls Roosted; the cattle at the pasture bars Lowed, and looked homeward; bats on leathern wings Flitted abroad; the sounds of labor died; Men prayed, and women wept; all ears grew sharp To hear the doom-blast of the trumpet shatter The black sky, that the dreadful face of Christ Might look from the rent clouds, not as he looked A loving guest at Bethany, but stern As Justice and inexorable Law.

Meanwhile in the old State House, dim as ghosts, Sat the lawgivers of Connecticut, Trembling beneath their legislative robes. "It is the Lord's Great Day! Let us adjourn," Some said; and then, as if with one accord, All eyes were turned to Abraham Davenport. He rose, slow cleaving with his steady voice The intolerable hush. "This well may be The Day of Judgment which the world awaits; But be it so or not, I only know My present duty, and my Lord's command To occupy till He come. So at the post Where He hath set me in His providence, I choose, for one, to meet Him face to face,-- No faithless servant frightened from my task, But ready when the Lord of the harvest calls; And therefore, with all reverence, I would say, Let God do His work, we will see to ours. Bring in the candles." And they brought them in.

Then by the flaring lights the Speaker read, Albeit with husky voice and shaking hands, An act to amend an act to regulate The shad and alewive fisheries. Whereupon Wisely and well spake Abraham Davenport, Straight to the question, with no figures of speech Save the ten Arab signs, yet not without The shrewd dry humor natural to the man His awe-struck colleagues listening all the while, Between the pauses of his argument, To hear the thunder of the wrath of God Break from the hollow trumpet of the cloud.

And there he stands in memory to this day, Erect, self-poised, a rugged face, half seen Against the background of unnatural dark, A witness to the ages as they pass, That simple duty hath no place for fear. 1866.

. . . . .

He ceased: just then the ocean seemed To lift a half-faced moon in sight; And, shore-ward, o'er the waters gleamed, From crest to crest, a line of light, Such as of old, with solemn awe, The fishers by Gennesaret saw, When dry-shod o'er it walked the Son of God, Tracking the waves with light where'er his sandals trod.

Silently for a space each eye Upon that sudden glory turned Cool from the land the breeze blew by, The tent-ropes flapped, the long beach churned Its waves to foam; on either hand Stretched, far as sight, the hills of sand; With bays of marsh, and capes of bush and tree, The wood's black shore-line loomed beyond the meadowy sea.

The lady rose to leave. "One song, Or hymn," they urged, "before we part." And she, with lips to which belong Sweet intuitions of all art, Gave to the winds of night a strain Which they who heard would hear again; And to her voice the solemn ocean lent, Touching its harp of sand, a deep accompaniment.

THE WORSHIP OF NATURE.

The harp at Nature's advent strung Has never ceased to play; The song the stars of morning sung Has never died away.

And prayer is made, and praise is given, By all things near and far; The ocean looketh up to heaven, And mirrors every star.

Its waves are kneeling on the strand, As kneels the human knee, Their white locks bowing to the sand, The priesthood of the sea'

They pour their glittering treasures forth, Their gifts of pearl they bring, And all the listening hills of earth Take up the song they sing.

The green earth sends her incense up From many a mountain shrine; From folded leaf and dewy cup She pours her sacred wine.

The mists above the morning rills Rise white as wings of prayer; The altar-curtains of the hills Are sunset's purple air.

The winds with hymns of praise are loud, Or low with sobs of pain,-- The thunder-organ of the cloud, The dropping tears of rain.

With drooping head and branches crossed The twilight forest grieves, Or speaks with tongues of Pentecost From all its sunlit leaves.

The blue sky is the temple's arch, Its transept earth and air, The music of its starry march The chorus of a prayer.

So Nature keeps the reverent frame With which her years began, And all her signs and voices shame The prayerless heart of man.

. . . . .

The singer ceased. The moon's white rays Fell on the rapt, still face of her. "_Allah il Allah_! He hath praise From all things," said the Traveller. "Oft from the desert's silent nights, And mountain hymns of sunset lights, My heart has felt rebuke, as in his tent The Moslem's prayer has shamed my Christian knee unbent."

He paused, and lo! far, faint, and slow The bells in Newbury's steeples tolled The twelve dead hours; the lamp burned low; The singer sought her canvas fold. One sadly said, "At break of day We strike our tent and go our way." But one made answer cheerily, "Never fear, We'll pitch this tent of ours in type another year."