Wide grew their vacant stare—
More grim their dumb despair—
As thunder-bursts in air
Came pealing—booming—crashing!
While, like red meteors’ blaze,
The lightning’s lurid rays
Lit spars and sails and stays
With never-ceasing flashing!
Oh, the wild hurricane!
Thou terror of the main!
What victims thou hast slain,
The fairest tropic scourging!
Though in thy maddest mood,
Thou did’st the Corsair good,
Else had his crew been food,
Beneath the green waves’ surging!
So quick the tempest came—
With thunder and with flame—
The Dutchman’s fire was tame
From which the pirate parted!
Then o’er the angry sea,
As strove each ship to be
Well braced toward the lee,
They, through the storm-clouds, darted!
Long was that famous chase—
The hurricane’s embrace
Long lines of foam did trace
As fast they sped to leeward:
The pirate, swift of wing,
Flew, like a bird in spring,
Away from the storm-king,
Sweeping from seaward,
Till, like a mighty ghost,
A headland on the coast,
Grim as a sullen host
In battle late defeated,
Rose like a tower of stone—
As pale the moonbeams shone—
And then in darkness—gone—
Like host that had retreated!
“Oh, father!” cried the maid,
Like one of ghosts afraid,
“What is that dreadful shade
That looms before us?”
“’Tis but the land, my girl,
That bends in graceful whorl,
And soon ’twill shine like pearl,
When bright the sun beams o’er us!”
With fortune now more kind,
They sped before the wind
Six days—the Dutch behind
Growling like thunder,
Before their path was seen
To glow with light between
The isles that lay serene
In all their tropic wonder.
Then came more dreary days,—
Dull—dark—with misty rays
A moment in a blaze,
And then in darkness ending!—
At last fair Leonore,
Longing to tread the shore,
Cried—“Will we nevermore
Escape this gloom impending?
“I know—oh—father dear,
Some dread mishap is near—
A third night, dark and drear,
The scowling Dutch behind us!”
“Nay, daughter;—soon the Sound
We’ll reach, ’mid isles around;—
I know each pass profound,—
No Dutchman there can find us!
“Yes—ere that fair expanse
The foe can win—perchance,
Old Nick himself may dance
Upon his quarter-railing!—
Through Hell Gate’s narrow way
His ship will go astray,
Till gored, like ship of clay,
She ends her days of sailing!”