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ALONE wild isle stands out at sea;
Its jagged rocks are flecked with spray,
And huge waves beat incessantly;
The fog-clouds never drift away;
While low and sad the sea-gulls soar,
And break the ocean's sullen roar.
No other sounds the long year through; -
Deserted now the island stands;
Still deeper grows its leaden hue,
Still fewer are its shelving sands;
Yet wintry storms it proudly mocks,
High tower up its gloomy rocks.
Now years ago, as legends run,
A noble vessel sailed away.
The sky was clear; an autumn sun
Sank in the peaceful twilight gray;
The good ship passed from eager sight,
And twilight faded into night.
The storm-king seized his ebon car,
Spreading the sky with fitful clouds,
And blotted out each sparkling star;
The chill winds moaned in the shrouds; -
Brave sailors watched, with looks of dread,
The heavy, threatening sky o'erhead.
The ship plunged on; no heaven-sent guide
Lit up the deep; - but still they hold
Their unknown course on ocean wide;
The nights keep growing bitter cold;
Soon ice has stiffened yard and rope,
And frozen every thought of hope.
A lone wild isle stands out at sea; -
Another plunge, it was the last;
One short, sad cry, - all misery
Was done; - the weary passage past,
Yet few there are who dream or know
The Boston's wreck, that night of woe.
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