Short Poems

And where she sank, up slowly came
The Spectre-Horse from out the sea.
And there he stands! His pale sides flame.
He 'll meet thee shortly, Lee.
He treads the waters as a solid floor;
He 's moving on. Lee waits him at the door.

'T is close at hand; for there, once more,
The burning ship. Wide sheets of flame
And shafted fire she showed before;—
Twice thus she hither came;—
But now she rolls a naked hulk, and throws
A wasting light; then settling, down she goes.

The darkness, like a dome of stone,
Ceils up the heavens. 'T is hush as death,—
All but the ocean's dull, low moan.
How hard he draws his breath!
He shudders as he feels the working Power.
Arouse thee, Lee! up! man thee for thine hour!

Not long he waits. Where now are gone
Peak, citadel, and tower, that stood
Beautiful, while the west sun shone,
And bathed them in his flood
Of airy glory?—Sudden darkness fell;
And down they went, peak, tower, citadel.

Again he sits in that still room;
All day he leans at that still board;
None to bring comfort to his gloom,
Or speak a friendly word.
Weakened with fear, lone, haunted by remorse,
Poor, shattered wretch, there waits he that pale Horse.

To-night the charmed number 's told.
“Twice have I come for thee,” It said.
“Once more, and none shall thee behold.
Come! live one!—to the dead!”—
So hears his soul, and fears the gathering night;
Yet sick and weary of the soft, calm light.

That Spectre-Steed now slowly pales,
Now changes like the moonlit cloud;
That cold, thin light now slowly fails,
Which wrapt them like a shroud.
Both ship and Horse are fading into air.
Lost, mazed, alone, see, Lee is standing there!

And long that thick, red light has shone
On stern, dark rocks, and deep, still bay,
On man and Horse that seem of stone,
So motionless are they.
But now its lurid fire less fiercely burns:
The night is going,—faint, gray dawn returns.

The far, low west is bright no more.
How still it is! No sound is heard
At sea, or all along the shore,
But cry of passing bird.
Thou living thing,—and dar'st thou come so near
These wild and ghastly shapes of death and fear?

O, thou wast born for worlds of love;
Making more lovely in thy shine
Whate'er thou look'st on: hosts above,
In that soft light of thine,
Burn softer; earth, in silvery veil, seems heaven.
Thou 'rt going down!—hast left him unforgiven!