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Here rests his head beneath the barren soil,
An Author, once to wits and patrons known; The Critics frown'd not on his humble toil, Nor did the world his labours quite disown.
Large his editions, but his readers few;
And in the Chandler found a readier friend.
No longer now pil'd up in useless state,
To kindle pipes, or curl some crazy crown.
The HAUNTED BEACH.
By Mrs. ROBINSON.
Upon a lonely desart beach,
Where the white foam was scatter'd,
A little shed uprear'd its head,
Tho' lofty barks were shatter'd!
The sea-weeds gathering near the door,
A sombre path display'd,
And, all around, the deafening roar
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 shadowy jaws display'd, And near the sand, at ebb of tide, A shatter'd mast was seen to ride,
Where the green billows stray'd.
And often, while the morning wind
The moonlight scene was all serene,
Of SPECTRES, gliding hand in hand,
And pale their faces were, as snow!
They look'd, as tho' they ponder'd!
And while the blast blew strong and loud, The clear Moon mark'd the ghastly crowd, Where the green billows play'd!
And then, above the haunted hut,
The SPECTRE band, his MESSMATES bold,
And brav'd the storm's commotion !
A silvery carpet made,
And mark'd the sailor reach the landAnd mark'd his MURDERER wash his hand,
Where the green billows play'd!
And since that hour the FISHERMAN
And when the skies are veil'd in gloom,
Bounds o'er the deeply yawning tomb, And flashing fires the sands illume Where the green billows play.
Full thirty years his task has grown,