Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE STORM SHIP, by ARTHUR GUITERMAN


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE STORM SHIP, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Her sails are wove of the fogs that flee
Last Line: For the waves wax rich where the storm ship rides.
Subject(s): New York City - Colonial Period; Sailing & Sailors; Sea; Ships & Shipping; Storms; Seamen; Sails; Ocean


HER sails are wove of the fogs that flee;
Her masts are wraiths of the Baltic firs;
The phosphor-glow of a sultry sea
Is the only foam that her forefoot stirs.

Her lanterns gleam with the wan corpse-light,
The clouds roll black where her helmsman steers;
The silent shapes on her main-deck's height
Are of Hudson old and his mutineers.

She comes from the capes of Labrador;
Through the death-white fleet of the North she glides,
And the fisher-craft of the mist-hung shore
Keep close in port when the Storm Ship rides.
. . . . . .
Full-crammed with Eastern silk and gold --
A guilty treasure, won amid
Red wrack and slaughter -- homeward rolled
The pirate craft of Captain Kidd.

And, "Westward, ho!" the chorus rang;
"Our hatches brim with precious store.
Let beggars fight and cowards hang!
But we shall live like lords, ashore."

"A sail to windward; ho! a sail!"
The lookout from the foretop cried.
The captain heard that boding hail;
He gripped the cutlass at his side.

"She comes in chase -- no flag displayed;
Belike a war-ship of the Crown --
Run out the starboard carronade
And send her mainmast toppling down!"

The gunner aimed -- and well he could;
The linstock blazed, the chain-shot flew;
It brought no crash of rending wood,
Yet cut the mainmast through and through.

It cut the mast before their eyes,
Yet mast and spars stood stiff and strong;
And underneath the darkening skies
That drumly vessel bowled along,

No murmur in her bellied clouds
Of canvas, gray without a fleck;
The breeze was voiceless in her shrouds,
The crew stood silent on her deck;

And, like a red-hot cannon-ball,
The sullen sun in skies of lead
Revealed, beneath a murky pall,
The livid faces of the dead!

Round spun the wheel! In panic, blind
To all but that dread shape abeam,
They fled, a rising gale behind,
Up Hudson's glamour-haunted stream.

Proud Mannahatta's island key
Was left astern. The sun went down.
They swept the shores of Tappan Zee
Beneath the heights of Tarrytown.

They drove across the sea-broad sweep
That laps the hills of Haverstraw
To Dunderberg's enchanted steep
Whose goblins keep the vale in awe.

Around the frowning mountain boiled
That swirling ebb, the Devil's Race;
In vain the tide-held pirate toiled!
While onward drove the wraith in chase.

New horror froze the cutthroat band;
For, as the phantom closer came,
Her ghostly captain waved his hand --
And Dunderberg was ringed with flame!

Red levin smote the buccaneer;
Her kindled rigging lit the night;
And helter-skelter, mad with fear,
The pirates plunged in headlong flight.

The crackling flame-tongues searched the hold;
A rending crash, a wild turmoil
Of smoke and foam -- and Hudson rolled
Above a wealth of blood-won spoil.

And he that 'scaped the flame and wave
Was spared to sound the depths of shame;
For him a dungeon's living grave,
A felon's death, a blackened name.

. . . . . .

Her sails are wove of the fogs that flee;
Her masts are wraiths of the Baltic firs;
The phosphor-glow of a sultry sea
Is the only foam that her forefoot stirs.

When she lays her head to the whooping gale
And the corpse-light flares on her lofty sides,
Oh, it's run for port with a thrice-reefed sail!
For the waves wax rich where the Storm Ship rides.





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