Stedman and Hutchinson, comps. A Library of American Literature:
An Anthology in Eleven Volumes. 1891.
Vols. IX–XI: Literature of the Republic, Part IV., 1861–1889
The Spectre-Horse
By Richard Henry Dana, Sr. (1787–1879)T
It bursts upon the midnight air.
They little think, in mirth and din,
What spirit waits them there.
As if the sky became a voice, there spread
A sound to appall the living, stir the dead.
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.
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 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!
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!’”
With rein of silk and curb of gold.
’Tis 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.
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.
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.
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?
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.”
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?
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!
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?
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.
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!
The waves are dancing in his sight;
The sea-birds call, and wheel, and skim.
O, blessed morning light!
He doth not hear their joyous call; he sees
No beauty in the wave, nor feels the breeze.
He ne’er must know its healing power.
The sinner on his sin shall brood,
And wait, alone, his hour.
A stranger to earth’s beauty, human love,—
No rest below for him, no hope above!