The Haunted Beach

Upon a lonely desart Beach    Where the white foam was scatter'd,

A little shed uprear'd its head    Though lofty Barks were shatter'd.

The Sea-weeds gath'ring near the door,    A sombre path display'd;

And, all around, the deaf'ning roar,

Re-echo'd on the chalky shore,    By the green billows made.

Above, a jutting cliff was seen    Where Sea Birds hover'd, craving;

And all around, the craggs were bound    With weeds—for ever waving.

And here and there, a cavern wide    Its shad'wy jaws display'd;

And near the sands, at ebb of tide,

A shiver'd mast was seen to ride    Where the green billows stray'd.

And often, while the moaning wind    Stole o'er the Summer Ocean;

The moonlight scene, was all serene,    The waters scarce in motion:

Then, while the smoothly slanting sand    The tall cliff wrapp'd in shade,

The Fisherman beheld a

Of Spectres, gliding hand in hand—    Where the green billows play'd.

And pale their faces were, as snow,    And sullenly they wander'd:

And to the skies with hollow eyes    They look'd as though they ponder'd.

And sometimes, from their hammock shroud,    They dismal howlings made,

And while the blast blew strong and

The clear moon mark'd the ghastly croud,    Where the green billows play'd!

And then, above the haunted hut    The Curlews screaming hover'd;

And the low door with furious roar    The frothy breakers cover'd.

For, in the Fisherman's lone shed    A

ER'D

AN was laid,

With ten wide gashes in his

And deep was made his sandy bed    Where the green billows play'd.

A Shipwreck'd Mariner was he,    Doom'd from his home to sever;

Who swore to be thro' wind and sea    Firm and undaunted ever!

And when the wave resistless roll'd,    About his arm he madeA packet rich of Spanish gold,

And, like a British sailor, bold,    Plung'd, where the billows play'd!

The Spectre band, his messmates brave    Sunk in the yawning ocean,

While to the mast he lash'd him fast    And brav'd the storm's commotion.

The winter moon, upon the sand    A silv'ry carpet made,

And mark'd the Sailor reach the land,

And mark'd his murd'rer wash his hand    Where the green billows play'd.

And since that hour the Fisherman    Has toil'd and toil'd in vain!

For all the night, the moony light    Gleams on the specter'd main!

And when the skies are veil'd in gloom,    The Murd'rer's liquid

Bounds o'er the deeply yawning tomb,

And flashing fires the sands illume,    Where the green billows play!

Full thirty years his task has been,    Day after day more weary;

For Heav'n design'd, his guilty mind    Should dwell on prospects dreary.

Bound by a strong and mystic chain,    He has not pow'r to stray;

But, destin'd mis'ry to sustain,

He wastes, in Solitude and Pain—    A loathsome life away.