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.