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There lieth a wreck on the dismal shore
Of cold and pitiless Labrador;
Where, under the moon, upon mounts of frost,
Full many a mariner's bones are tost !
Yon shadowy Bark hath been to that wreck,
And the dim blue fire, that lights her deck,
Doth play on as pale and livid a crew

ever yet drank the church-yard dew!
To Deadman's Isle, in the eye of the blast,
To Deadman's Isle, she speeds her fast ;
By skeleton shapes her sails are furld,
And the hand that steers is not of this world!
Oh! hurry thee on-oh I hurry thee on
Thou terrible Bark ! ere the night be gone,
Nor let morning look on so foul a sight
As would blanch for ever her rosy ligut!

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Billing, Printcr, 103, Ifatton Garden, London, and Guildford, Surrey

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