The Haunted Hour Part 8

"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 s.h.i.+p is so crank and walty, I fear our grave she will be!"

And the s.h.i.+ps 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 s.h.i.+p 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 G.o.d in prayer, That, to quiet their troubled spirits, He had sent this s.h.i.+p 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 sh.o.r.e, 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 cl.u.s.ters 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 s.h.i.+p 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 sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e; That the s.h.i.+p 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 sh.o.r.e, 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 drowned 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 sh.o.r.e 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 sh.o.r.e; 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 sh.o.r.es 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 supp.a.w.n, 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, Bl.u.s.tered away to his tugging boat.

After him hastened Jacobus Horn: "Stay with us, Rambout, till Monday morn.