Pilgrim, saint, and kingly sailor, -
All are brave who sleepeth here.
Oft some wanderer at the sunrise
Sees the deep fog roll away,
And a vision of this princess
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Shrouded in the sparkling spray.
Long he watches, lost in rapture,
But she fadeth from his gaze;
Half believing, still he lingers,
Dreaming of the olden days.
But the sun, the great archbishop,
Casts a halo round the graves
Where the noble hearts are sleeping
In their kingdom of the waves.
C.