Short Poems

Thou mild, sad mother, silent moon,
Thy last, low, melancholy ray
Shines towards him. Quit him not so soon!
Mother, in mercy, stay!
Despair and death are with him; and canst thou,
With that kind, earthward look, go leave him now?

“I look, where mortal man may not,—
Down to the chambers of the deep.
I see the dead, long, long forgot;
I see them in their sleep.
A dreadful power is mine, which none can know,
Save he who leagues his soul with death and woe.”

Through that cold light the fearful man
Sits looking on the burning ship.
Wilt ever rail again, or ban?
How fast he moves the lip!
And yet he does not speak, or make a sound!
What see you, Lee? the bodies of the drowned?

And, nigh, the tall ship 's burning on,
With red, hot spars and crackling flame;
From hull to gallant, nothing 's gone;—
She burns, and yet 's the same!
Her hot, red flame is beating, all the night,
On man and Horse, in their cold, phosphor light.

He goes with speed; he goes with dread!
And now they 're on the hanging steep!
And, now, the living and the dead,
They 'll make the horrid leap!
The Horse stops short,—his feet are on the verge!
He stands, like marble, high above the surge.

He 's now upon the Spectre's back,
With rein of silk and curb of gold.
'T is fearful speed!—the rein is slack
Within his senseless hold;
Borne by an unseen power, right on he rides,
Yet touches not the Shadow-Beast he strides.

Thy hair pricks up!—“O, I must bear
His damp, cold breath! It chills my frame!
His eyes,—their near and dreadful glare
Speaks that I must not name!”
Art mad to mount that Horse!—“A power within,
I must obey, cries, ‘Mount thee, man of sin!’”

“I cannot sit;—I needs must go:
The spell is on my spirit now.
I go to dread,—I go to woe!”
O, who so weak as thou,
Strong man! His hoofs upon the door-stone, see,
The Shadow stands! His eyes are on thee, Lee!

It rang in ears that knew the sound;
And hot, flushed cheeks are blanched with fear.
Ha! why does Lee look wildly round?
Thinks he the drowned horse near?
He drops his cup,—his lips are stiff with fright.
Nay, sit thee down,—it is thy banquet night.

The Spirit-Steed sent up the neigh;
It seemed the living trump of hell,
Sounding to call the damned away,
To join the host that fell.
It rang along the vaulted sky: the shore
Jarred hard, as when the thronging surges roar.