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Straight from the far horizon's line
The east-wind blew; the smell of the brine
Banished the months of weary peace,
And bade this desolate torpor cease.
It was almost sunset; there was the sea.
Only a night's hard pull, and he
With his dory made fast to a whale-ship's side
Could rock once more on the ocean wide.
What to him the fare or the men?
The ruder the better. He held his own
Still with the roughest. God! how he longed
To be once more where the sailors thronged,
Or the old-time wreckers might shout again
On some cruel isle of the middle zone!
See! with the sunset came once more
The Palatine Light, the ship on fire!
Each generation, son and sire,
Had watched it gleam, since the current bore
The fated ship to a merciless wreck,
With the crew in sight on the blazing deck.
There was the phantom now! the flame
Climbed stay and halyard to pennon-staff!
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