II

One with the rest, I saw the commerce dwindle,

High-bosomed, sturdy vessels take the main

And leave us, with the morning in their faces,

Never to come to any port again.

Slowly an ominous and pregnant silence

Grew deep upon the wharves where ships had lain.

Laughter rang hollow in those days of waiting,

And nameless fears came drifting down the night.

The tides swung in from sea, hung, and retreated,

Bearing their secrets back beyond our sight;

Till, like the sudden rending of a curtain,

The East reeled with the lightnings of a fight.

Never was a night so long with waiting.

Never was the dark more prone to stay.

And, in the whispering gloom, taut, listening faces

Hung in a pallid line along the bay.

Slowly at last the mists dissolved, revealing

A fearful silhouette against the day.

Blue on a saffron dawn, a frigate lifted

Out of the fog that veiled her fold on fold,

Taking the early sunlight on her cannon

In running spurts and rings of molten gold;

No flag of any nation at her masthead.

Small wonder that our pulses fluttered cold.

Never a shot she fired on the city,

But, when the night came blowing in from sea,

And our ruddy windows warmed the darkness,

Through the surrounding gloom we heard the free

Strong sweep and clank of rowing in the harbor,

And on the wharves raw jest and revelry.

She was the first, but many others followed;

Insolent, keen, and swift to come-about,

I have seen them go smashing down the harbor,

Loud with the boom of canvas and the shout

Of lusty voices at the crowded bulwarks,

Where tattooed hands were swinging long-boats out.

Up through the streets the roisterers would swagger,

Filling the narrow ways from wall to wall,

Scattering gold like ringing summer showers,

Ready with song and jest and cheery call

For those who passed; buying the little taverns

At any cost; opening wine for all.

There were rare evenings when we used to gather

Down in a coffee-house beside the square.

Morgan knew well our little favored corner;

Black Beard the sinister was often there;

And we have watched the night blur into morning

While Bonnet, quiet-voiced and debonnaire,

Would throw the glamor of the seas about us

In archipelagoes of mad romance;

Pointing a story with a line from Shakespeare,

Quoting a Latin proverb; while his glance,

Flashing across the eager, listening circle,

Fettered — blinded — held us in a trance.

Their bags of Spanish gold bribed our juries,

Bought dignified officials of the Crown;

Money and wine were ours for the asking;

The Orient flamed out in shawl and gown,

Until a sudden and unholy splendor

Irradiated all the quiet town.

Those were the days when there was open gaming,

And roaring song in tongue of every race.

Evil, as colorful as poison weeds,

Bloomed in the market place.

And those who should have known, shared in the revels,

And passed their neighbors with averted face.

Until one day a frigate entered harbor,

And passed the city, with a Spanish prize,

Then insolently came-about, despoiled her,

And fired her before our very eyes,

While the vagrant breezes left the streaming vapor

Like red rust on the clean steel of the skies.