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."