The Isle of Portland
The star-filled seas are smooth to-nightFrom France to England strown;Black towers above the Portland lightThe felon-quarried stone.
On yonder island, not to rise,Never to stir forth free,Far from his folk a dead lad liesThat once was friends with me.
Lie you easy, dream you light,And sleep you fast for aye;And luckier may you find the nightThan ever you found the day.
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