Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE PIRATE'S SPUKE by ARTHUR GUITERMAN

First Line: LEAVE THE DULL PRESENT, TO SEEK AWHILE
Last Line: AND THE FORCE OF AN IRON WILL.
Subject(s): DEVIL; NEW YORK CITY - DUTCH PERIOD; PIRATES; SATAN; MEPHISTOPHELES; LUCIFER; BEELZEBUB; PIRACY; BUCCANEERS;
LEAVE the dull present, to seek awhile
The little Dutch burgh on Manhattan Isle
Under that ruler of adamant,
Sturdy old Governor Stuyvesant.
Here is a circle of broad-backed men
Harking, while Trumpeter Pietersen
Opens a budget of wondrous lore
Of the deeds of the doughty old governor;
Sings him triumphant o'er man and elf;
Yea (whisper low!), o'er the Duyvil himself!

In the rock-toothed strait where the three tides meet
Ye may cast your lines at will
While the sun is high in an honest sky
And the ravening wave is still;

But 'ware the reefs! under midnight's roof
When the roaring eddies swell!
For the rocks are marked with the cloven hoof
And the smut of the brands of hell.

Like a slavered wolf the torrent moans
And raves through deeps and shoals;
The air is filled with the warning groans
And wails of perished souls;

And the Duyvil squats on the Hog's Back high
When the angry cloud-banks form,
And his fiddle squalls to the murky sky
In hail of the brewing storm.

So he snareth fish for his grimy clan,
And the foaming brine brawls hot
As he griddles his prey on the Frying-pan
Or seethes it in the Pot!

All day a sun of sullen red
Through mists had glowered down;
That night 'twas inky black o'erhead
And a wild wind smote the town.

The March sky broke with a crashing roar,
But never a raindrop fell;
And a dreadful laugh shook the eastern shore --
The mirthless laugh of hell!

There, in the curd of the churning vat
Where naught of earth could float,
A black-faced, scar-browed seaman sat
In the stern of a tossing boat.

He wore a scarf at his evil throat,
And the hat of a picaroon,
And every boss of his blue sea-coat
Was a shining gold doubloon.

His belt of net with pistolet
And burnished dirk was hung;
The thunder's growl and tempest's howl
Waxed louder as he sung:

"Oh, golden Main and fleets of Spain!
No more my chests ye fill,
For here I stay till Judgment Day
To work my Master's will!"

Out stumped our stanch old governor,
A musket in his hand:
"Now get thee gone, thou devil's spawn,
Nor longer vex my land!"

"Oh, I may not go and I will not go,"
That girding goblin cried,
"While the trade-winds blow and the salt waves flow
And the white moon rules the tide."

"Thou wretched fry! wouldst thou defy
My will with tawdry spell?
Thou thing unclean, thou ghoul obscene,
Hence! hie thee back to hell!"

"Oh, silver and gold, and silver and gold!
Rich, rich my Master's fee!
So here I ride, whate'er betide,
Until he looseth me."

The governor raised his musket true
And aimed through spume and brine:
"Dost silver crave, thou losel knave?
Then take this gift of mine!"

The bullet was cast of the silver bright;
'Twas blessed by the Dominie
With a mystic word -- and it smote that sprite
In the place where a heart should be.

A cry like the scream of a dying horse,
A flurry of smoke and flame
Of lurid red -- and the phantom fled
To the place from whence he came.

The great wind sank to a maiden's prayer,
The guttural thunder died,
The moonbeam dropped through a crystal air
To dance on a dimpling tide.

And the strait is free of the fiendish art
And the power of goblins ill,
For they fear the wrath of a fearless heart
And the force of an iron will.



Home: PoetryExplorer.net