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22 From whose maw agape, with rock-set teeth, Every breath seems charged with death. To guide his feet a line is laid Of chalk-blocks, whiter with whitewash made, Over the green, elastic turf; And his perch is so high that he cannot hear, Even with his accustomed ear, The monotonous-sounding swish of the surf. To-night there's a fight 'Twixt the god of the sea and the gods of the air, And there's death and destruction afloat everywhere. The flaps of his oilskin like whipthongs crack, As the Coastguard seeks his wonted track. But the line leads over the cliff's pent brow, And he falls a thousand feet below. His cry, caught up by the rush of the air, Startles the guillemots' nestless lair. Who was it said, 'A life for a life'?— And a smuggler marries the widowed wife.