Puritans

Sidling upon the river, the white boat

Has volleyed with its cannon all the morning,

Shaken the shore towns like a Judgment warning,

Telling the palsied water its demand

That the crime come to the top again, and float,

That the sunk murder rise to the light and land.

Blam! In the noon's perfected brilliance burn

Brief blooms of flame, which soil away in smoke;

And down below, where slowed concussion broke

The umber stroll of waters, water-dust

Dreamily powders up, and serves to turn

The river surface to a cloudy rust.

Down from his bridge the river captain cries

To fire again. They make the cannon sound;

But none of them would wish the murder found,

Nor wish in other manner to atone

Than booming at their midnight crime, which lies

Rotting the river, weighted with a stone.