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Shew'd the dire peril. Often he had snatch'd From the wild billows, some unhappy man Who liv'd to bless the hermit of the rocks. But if his generous cares were all in vain, And with slow swell the tide of morning bore Some blue swol'n cor'se to land; the pale recluse Dug in the chalk a sepulchre—above Where the dank sea-wrack mark'd the utmost tide, And with his prayers perform'd the obsequies For the poor helpless stranger.

One dark night The equinoctial wind blew south by west, Fierce on the shore;—the bellowing cliffs were shook Even to their stony base, and fragments fell Flashing and thundering on the angry flood.