THE DEAD SHIP OF HARPSWELL.

When sweet airs come seaward
From heaths starred with broom,
And high rocks throw mildly
On the blanched sands a gloom;
Up the still, glistening beaches,
Up the creeks we will hie;
Over banks of bright seaweed
The ebb-tide leaves dry.

We will gaze from the sand-hills,
At the white sleeping town;

At the church on the hill-side,

And then come back, down.

Singing, "There dwells a loved one,

But cruel is she;

She left lonely for ever

The kings of the sea."

63

MATTHEW Arnold.

THE DEAD SHIP OF HARPSWELL.

WHAT flecks the outer gray beyond

The sundown's golden trail?

The white flash of a sea-bird's wing,

Or gleam of slanting sail?

Let young eyes watch from Neck and Point,

And sea-worn elders pray,

The ghost of what was once a ship

Is sailing up the bay!

From gray sea-fog, from icy drift,
From peril and from pain,

The home-bound fisher greets thy lights,
O hundred-harbored Maine !

But many a keel shall seaward turn,

And many a sail putstand,

When, tall and white, the Dead Ship looms Against the dusk of land.

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.

65

THE DEAD SHIP OF HARPSWELL.

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!

JOHN GREENleaf Whittier.

THE "THREE BELLS."

BEN

ENEATH the low-hung night cloud
That raked her splintering mast,

The good ship settled slowly,

The cruel leak gained fast.

Over the awful ocean

Her signal guns pealed out. Dear God! was that thy answer From the horror round about?

A voice came down the wild wind, "Ho! ship ahoy!" its cry:

"Our stout Three Bells' of Glasgow

Shall lay till daylight by !"

Hour after hour crept slowly,

Yet on the heaving swells

Tossed up and down the ship-lights,

The lights of the "Three Bells"!

THE "THree belLS.”

And ship to ship made signals,

Man answered back to man, While oft, to cheer and hearten,

The "Three Bells nearer ran;

And the captain from her taffrail
Sent down his hopeful cry.
"Take heart! Hold on!" he shouted,
"The Three Bells' shall lay by!"

All night across the waters

The tossing lights shone clear;

All night from reeling taffrail

The "Three Bells" sent her cheer.

And when the dreary watches

Of storm and darkness passed, Just as the wreck lurched under, All souls were saved at last.

Sail on, "Three Bells," for ever,
In grateful memory sail!
Ring on, "Three Bells," of rescue,
Above the wave and gale ! .

Type of the Love eternal,
Repeat the Master's cry,

As, tossing through our darkness,
The lights of God draw nigh!

67

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.