He knew, as he wrought, that a loving heart

Was somehow baffling his evil art ;
For more than spell of Elf or Troll
Is a maiden's prayer for her lover's soul.

And Esbern listened, and caught the sound

Of a Troli-wife singing underground: "To-morrow comes Fine, father thine : Lie still and hush thee, baby mine!

"Lie still, my darling! next sunrise Thou 'lt play with Esbern Snare's heart and eyes!"

"Ho! ho!" quoth Esbern, "is that your game?

Thanks to the Troll-wife, I know his name!"

The Troll he heard him, and hurried on To Kallundborg church with the lacking stone.

"Too late, Gaffer Fine !" cried Esbern Snare;

And Troll and pillar vanished in air!

That night the harvesters heard the sound

Of a woman sobbing underground, And the voice of the Hill-Troll loud with blame

Of the careless singer who told his

name.

Of the Troll of the Church they sing

the rune

The white flash of a sea-bird's wing, Or gleam of slanting sail?

379

Let young eyes watch from Neck and Point,

And sea-worn elders pray,-
The ghost of what was once a ship
Is sailing up the bay!

From gray sea-fog, from icy drift,
From peril and from pain,

The home-bound fisher greets thy lights,
O hundred-harbored Maine!

But many a keel shall seaward turn,

And many a sail outstand,

When, tall and white, the Dead Ship looms

Against the dusk of land.

She rounds the headland's bristling pines;

She threads the isle-set bay;
No spur of breeze can speed her on,
Nor ebb of tide delay.

Old men still walk the Isle of Orr
Who tell her date and name,
Old shipwrights sit in Freeport yards
Who hewed her oaken frame.

What weary doom of baffled quest,
Thou sad sea-ghost, is thine?
What makes thee in the haunts of home
A wonder and a sign?
No foot is on thy silent deck,
Upon thy helm no hand;
No ripple hath the soundless wind

That smites thee from the land!

For never comes the ship to port,

Howe'er the breeze may be ; Just when she nears the waiting shore She drifts again to sea.

No tack of sail, nor turn of helm,

Nor sheer of veering side;
Stern-fore she drives to sea and night,
Against the wind and tide.

In vain o'er Harpswell Neck the star
Of evening guides her in;
In vain for her the lamps are lit
Within thy tower, Seguin !
In vain the harbor-boat shall hail,
In vain the pilot call;

No hand shall reef her spectral sail,
Or let her anchor fall.

Circled by waters that never freeze, Beaten by billow and swept by breeze, Lieth the island of Manisees,

Set at the mouth of the Sound to hold The coast lights up on its turret old, Yellow with moss and sea-fog mould.

Dreary the land when gust and sleet At its doors and windows howl and beat, And Winter laughs at its fires of peat !

But in summer time, when pool and pond,

Held in the laps of valleys fond,
Are blue as the glimpses of sea beyond;

When the hills are sweer with the brier-rose,

And, hid in the warm, soft dells, unclose Flowers the main-land rarely knows;

When boats to their morning fishing go,
And, held to the wind and slanting low,
Whitening and darkening the small
sails show,-

Then is that lonely island fair;
And the pale health-seeker findeth there
The wine of life in its pleasant air.

No greener valleys the sun invite,
On smoother beaches no sea-birds light,
No blue waves shatter to foam more
white!

There, circling ever their narrow range,
Quaint tradition and legend strange
Live on unchallenged, and know na
change.

Old wives spinning their webs of tow,
Or rocking weirdly to and fro
In and out of the peat's dull glow,

And old men mending their nets of twine,

Talk together of dream and sign,
Talk of the lost ship Palatine, -

The ship that, a hundred years before,
Freighted deep with its goodly store,
In the gales of the equinox went ashore.