After the ship—how
good the spacious rooms!
How strange mosquito canopies
on beds!
Knights of St. Louis sniff
the frying yams,
Venison, and turtle,—
The old green turtle died
tonight—
The children’s eyes
grow wider on the stairs.
Down in the library,
The Marquis, writing back
to old Auvergne,
Has sanded down the ink;
Again the quill pen squeaks:
“A ship will sail tomorrow
back to France,
By special providence for
you, dear wife;
Tonight there will be toasts
to Washington,
To our good Louis and his
Antoinette—
There will be toasts tonight
for la Fayette....”
He melts the wax;
Look, how the candle gutters
at the flame!
And now he seals the letter
with his ring.
H.A.
[4] See the note at the back of the book.
THE PRIEST AND THE PIRATE[5]
A BALLAD OF THEODOSIA BURR
And must the old priest wake
with fright
Because the wind is high tonight?
Because the yellow moonlight
dead
Lies silent as a word unsaid—
What dreams had he upon his
bed?
Listen—the storm!
The winter moon scuds high
and bare;
Her light is old upon his
hair;
The gray priest muses in a
prayer:
“Christ Jesus, when
I come to die
Grant me a clean, sweet, summer
sky,
Without the mad wind’s
panther cry.
Send me a little garden breeze
To gossip in magnolia trees;
For I have heard, these fifty
years,
Confessions muttered at my
ears,
Till every mumble of the wind
Is like tired voices that
have sinned,
And furtive skirling of the
leaves
Like feet about the priest-house
eaves,
And moans seem like the unforgiven
That mutter at the gate of
heaven,
Ghosts from the sea that passed
unshriven.
And it was just this time
of night
There came a boy with lantern
light
And he was linen-pale with
fright;
It was not hard to guess my
task,
Although I raised the sash
to ask—
‘Oh, Father,’
cried the boy, ’Oh, come!
Quickly with the viaticum!
The sailor-man is going to
die!’
The thirsty silence drank
his cry.
A starless stillness damped
the air,
While his shrill voice kept
piping there,
’The sailor-man is going
to die’—
The huge drops splattered
from the sky.
I shivered at my midnight
toil,
But took the elements and
oil,
And hurried down into the
street
That barked and clamored at
our feet—
And as we ran there came a
hum
Of round shot slithered on
a drum,
While like a lid of sound
shut down
The thunder-cloud upon the
town;
Jalousies banged and loose
roofs slammed,
Like hornbooks fluttered by
the damned;
And like a drover’s
whip the rain
Cracked in the driving hurricane.