THE PRIEST AND THE PIRATE

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.

Only the lightning showed the door

That like two cats we darted for;

It almost gave a man a qualm

To find the house inside so calm.

I sloshed all dripping up the stair,

Up to an attic room a-glare

With candle-shine and lightning-flare —

With little draughts that moved its hair

A wrinkled mummy sat a-stare,

Rigid, huddling in a chair.

I thought at first the thing was dead

Until the eyes slid in its head.

It seemed as if the Banshee storm

Knocked screaming for his withered form;

It shrieked and whistled like a parrot,

Clucking and stuttering through the garret.

With-out, the mailéd hands of hail

Battered the casements, and the gale

About his low roof shuddered, sighing,

As if it knew that he was dying.

It breathed like waiting beasts outside,

While soft feet made the shingles slide.

Then, like a blow upon the cheek,

The mummy's voice began to speak:

‘ Give me a priest! I'm going to die!’

The Banshee wind took up the cry:

‘ Give him a priest, he's going to die!’

The old house seemed to rock with laughter,

Shaking its sides and every rafter.

There was a terror in that room

Like faint light streaming from a tomb.

I tried three times before I spoke,

And then the bald words made me choke:

‘ Be quiet, man, for I am come

To bring you the viaticum!’ —

I made the sign of holiness.

He rattled out a startled cry.

I whispered low,‘ Confess, confess!’

His thin hands quivered with distress.

It is a bitter thing to die.

Just when a blast fell on the town,

I felt his lean claws clutch me down.

It seemed as if the hands of death

Were beating at my breast for breath;

His arms were like a twisted rope

Of rotten strands that tugged at hope.

‘ Listen, my father, listen well!’

The wind went tolling like a bell:

‘ She's lying fifty fathoms deep,

Where fishes like white birds go by

Through water-air in ocean-land;

She has a prayer-book in her hand —

Tonight she walks; tonight she spoke;

Her hair goes floating out and up,

Blown one way, with the water weeds,

Always one way, like amber smoke.

She asks the gift she gave to me —

This ring — I cannot get it off!’

His hand and hand fought like two claws —

‘ I hear her calling from the sea!’

His terror made my own heart pause.

His voice went moaning with the wind,

And groaned and rattled,‘ I have sinned,’

And moaned and murmured at my ear

Of bat-winged angels standing near.

‘ The little schooner “Patriot” —

I can n't forget the vessel's name;

We met her rounding Naggs Head Bank;

We made her people walk the plank,

Twelve men whose faces I forgot.

But there was one sweet lady there,

With lovely eyes and lovely hair,

Whose face has stayed like pain and care.

For every man she made a prayer;

And when the last had found the sea,

I cried to her to pray for me.

She prayed — and took this ring, and said:

“Wear this for me when I am dead.”

She bowed her head, then steadfastly

She walked into the hungry sea.

But silent words were on her lips,

And there was comfort in her hand;

It was as if she walked a bridge

That led into a pleasant land.

All that was long and long ago,

So long ago this ring has grown

To be a very part of me,

One with my finger and the bone:’

His voice went trailing in a moan.

‘ This is her ring —

This is her ring!

I dare not die and wear the thing!’

His hand plucked at his finger thin

As if to ease him of his sin.

I gave a sudden gasping shout —

The wind that blew the window in

Had blown the candle out.

‘ Quick, father, quick!

The ring... her name....’

There came a jagged spurt of flame;

The window seemed a furnace door

That gave upon a bed of ore;

The thunder rumbled out the muttered

Words that his failing tongue had uttered —

Another flash, a rending crack —

The old man crumpled like a sack;

I felt his stringy arms go slack.

How could he sit so dead, so still!

While wind snouts snuffed along the sill?

White shone his glimmering face, and dull

The sodden silence of the lull,

For when he died the wind had dropt;

And with his heart the storm had stopt,

All but a far-off mouthing sound

That seemed to sough from underground;

While silence paused to plan some ill,

Thwarted by thunder growling still.

All in the darkness of the place

With lightning playing on its face,

I fumbled with the corpse's ring

To which the dead hands seemed to cling;

The stiffening joints were loth to play —

After awhile it came away!

Out, like a sneak-thief through the gloom,

I tiptoed from the dead man's room;

The door behind me like a hatch

Banged — the white splash of my match

Made shadow shapes dance on the wall

As if the devil pulled the string.

The light ran melting round the ring;

Inside the worn script scrawled a-blur:

‘ J. A. to Theodosia Burr’

Confession is a sacred thing!

I'll keep his secret like the sea;

The ring goes to the grave with me.”