C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
The Doom of Lee
By Richard Henry Dana, Sr. (1787–1879)
W
Which makes so far out in the sea,
Feeling the kelp-weed on its edge?
Poor idle Matthew Lee!
So weak and pale? A year and little more,
And bravely did he lord it round this shore!
And rolls the pebbles ’neath his hands;
Now walks the beach; then stops by fits,
And scores the smooth wet sands;
Then tries each cliff and cove and jut that bounds
The isles; then home from many weary rounds.
From day to day, the uneven strand?
“I wish, I wish that I might go!
But I would go by land;
And there’s no way that I can find—I’ve tried
All day and night!”—He seaward looked, and sighed.
That once his eye had made to quail.
“Lee, go with us; our sloop is nigh;
Come! help us hoist her sail.”
He shook.—“You know the Spirit Horse I ride!
He’ll let me on the sea with none beside!”
Looking so like to living things.
O! ’tis a proud and gallant show
Of bright and broad-spread wings,
Making it light around them, as they keep
Their course right onward through the unsounded deep.
Their backs in long and narrow line,
The breakers shout, and leap, and shift,
And send the sparkling brine
Into the air, then rush to mimic strife:
Glad creatures of the sea, and full of life!—
No fellowship nor joy for him.
Borne down by woe, he makes no moan,
Though tears will sometimes dim
That asking eye—oh, how his worn thoughts crave—
Not joy again, but rest within the grave.
To-night the charmèd 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 coming night;
Yet sick and weary of the soft calm light.
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.
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.
Ceils up the heavens. ’Tis hush as death—
All but the ocean’s dull low moan.
How hard Lee draws his breath!
He shudders as he feels the working Power.
Arouse thee, Lee! up! man thee for thine hour!
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 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.
Lee’s spirit to the Spectre said;
“I know that I must go with thee—
Take me not to the dead.
It was not I alone that did the deed!”
Dreadful the eye of that still, spectral Steed!
In that fixed eye which holds him fast.
How still they stand!—the man and horse.
“Thine hour is almost past.”
“Oh, spare me,” cries the wretch, “thou fearful one!”
“My time is full—I must not go alone.”
“Nay, murderer, rest nor stay for thee!”
The horse and man are on their way;
He bears him to the sea.
Hark! how the Spectre breathes through this still night!
See, from his nostrils streams a deathly light!
He’s on the sea! that dreadful horse!
Lee flings and writhes in wild despair!
In vain! The spirit-corse
Holds him by fearful spell; he cannot leap.
Within that horrid light he rides the deep.
The curling comb, and dark steel wave:
There yet sits Lee the Spectre’s back—
Gone! gone! and none to save!
They’re seen no more; the night has shut them in.
May Heaven have pity on thee, man of sin!
The sealed-up sky is breaking forth,
Mustering its glorious hosts again,
From the far south and north;
The climbing moon plays on the rippling sea.—
Oh, whither on its waters rideth Lee?