Page:The Golden Violet.pdf/304

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That ship has been the victim; Stranded on yon bleak coast, She has lost her mast, her winged sails, And her deck its warlike boast. O'er her bravest sweep the waters, And a pale and ghastly band Cling to the black rock's side, or pace Like ghosts the sullen strand.

The moonshine of the midnight Is abroad upon the hills; No hunter's step is ringing there, No horn the echo fills. He is laid on a snow pillow, Which his red heart-blood has dyed; One false step, and the jagged rock Enter'd the hunter's side.