Years after, when a poet asked
The Goddess’s opinion,
As one whose soul its wings had tasked
In Art’s clear-aired dominion,
“Discriminate,” she said, “betimes;
The Muse is unforgiving;
Put all your beauty in your rhymes,
Your morals in your living.”
THE FLYING DUTCHMAN.
Don’t believe in the Flying Dutchman?
I’ve known the fellow for years;
My button I’ve wrenched from his clutch, man:
I shudder whenever he nears!
He’s a Rip van Winkle skipper,
A Wandering Jew of the sea,
Who sails his bedevilled old clipper
In the wind’s eye, straight as a bee.
Back topsails! you can’t escape him;
The man-ropes stretch with his weight,
And the queerest old toggeries drape him,
The Lord knows how long out of date!
Like a long-disembodied idea,
(A kind of ghost plentiful now,)
He stands there; you fancy you see a
Coeval of Teniers or Douw.
He greets you; would have you take letters:
You scan the addresses with dread,
While he mutters his donners and wetters,—
They’re all from the dead to the dead!
You seem taking time for reflection,
But the heart fills your throat with a jam,
As you spell in each faded direction
An ominous ending in dam.
Am I tagging my rhymes to a legend?
That were changing green turtle to mock:
No, thank you! I’ve found out which wedge-end
Is meant for the head of a block.
The fellow I have in my mind’s eye
Plays the old Skipper’s part here on shore,
And sticks like a burr, till he finds I
Have got just the gauge of his bore.