Then all around was dark again,
  And blacker than before;
But in that single flash of light
He had beheld a fearful sight,
  And thought of the oath he swore.

For right ahead lay the Ship of the Dead,
  The ghostly Carmilhan! 
Her masts were stripped, her yards were bare,
And on her bowsprit, poised in air,
  Sat the Klaboterman.

Her crew of ghosts was all on deck
  Or clambering up the shrouds;
The boatswain’s whistle, the captain’s hail,
Were like the piping of the gale,
  And thunder in the clouds.

And close behind the Carmilhan
  There rose up from the sea,
As from a foundered ship of stone,
Three bare and splintered masts alone: 
  They were the Chimneys Three.

And onward dashed the Valdemar
  And leaped into the dark;
A denser mist, a colder blast,
A little shudder, and she had passed
  Right through the Phantom Bark.

She cleft in twain the shadowy hulk,
  But cleft it unaware;
As when, careering to her nest,
The sea-gull severs with her breast
  The unresisting air.

Again the lightning flashed; again
  They saw the Carmilhan,
Whole as before in hull and spar;
But now on board of the Valdemar
  Stood the Klaboterman.

And they all knew their doom was sealed;
  They knew that death was near;
Some prayed who never prayed before,
And some they wept, and some they swore,
  And some were mute with fear.

Then suddenly there came a shock,
  And louder than wind or sea
A cry burst from the crew on deck,
As she dashed and crashed, a hopeless wreck,
  Upon the Chimneys Three.

The storm and night were passed, the light
  To streak the east began;
The cabin-boy, picked up at sea,
Survived the wreck, and only he,
  To tell of the Carmilhan.

INTERLUDE

When the long murmur of applause
That greeted the Musician’s lay
Had slowly buzzed itself away,
And the long talk of Spectre Ships
That followed died upon their lips
And came unto a natural pause,
“These tales you tell are one and all
Of the Old World,” the Poet said,
“Flowers gathered from a crumbling wall,
Dead leaves that rustle as they fall;
Let me present you in their stead
Something of our New England earth,
A tale which, though of no great worth,
Has still this merit, that it yields
A certain freshness of the fields,
A sweetness as of home-made bread.”

The Student answered:  “Be discreet;
For if the flour be fresh and sound,
And if the bread be light and sweet,
Who careth in what mill ’t was ground,
Or of what oven felt the heat,
Unless, as old Cervantes said,
You are looking after better bread
Than any that is made of wheat? 
You know that people nowadays
To what is old give little praise;
All must be new in prose and verse: 
They want hot bread, or something worse,
Fresh every morning, and half baked;
The wholesome bread of yesterday,
Too stale for them, is thrown away,
Nor is their thirst with water slaked.