Page:Once a Week Volume 8.djvu/554

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Afloat is his skiff, to her gunwale sunk (Though empty to mortal sight); He hoists her sail to the furious gale, And drifts into blackest night.

Strange shrieks, deep groans from the boat resound— The ghosts who have died to dayto-day [sic]— Babes, women, and men—they wail as they sail From their loved ones far away.

In an hour they land on the Cornish strand; Lightly now (see the boat’s keel shows!), Lightly the swift sea-horses bear Him home o’er the crested snows.

Speeds to his arms at the shore his bride, Winged by love, so young and so fair; She slips and the long black sea-weeds twine And stream ’midst her golden hair.

Then rises the Evil One seeking his prey, Drags him back from the Breton shore; Unshriven, unhouselled, the ghosts may roam, But his skiff comes nevermore!

All night they flit by Cornuaille’s beach (You may hear them moan o’erhead); The peasants still cross their breasts, and call That bay the Bay of the Dead. M. G. W.