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[397] He looked. Her sweet face still and white
     And strange in the noonday taper light,
She lay on her little bed,
     With the cross at her feet and head.

In a passion of grief the strong man bent
     Down to her face, and, kissing it, went
Back to the waiting Breeze,
     Back to the mournful seas.

Never again to the Merrimac
     And Newbury's homes that bark came back.
Whether her fate she met
     On the shores of Carraquette,

Miscou, or Tracadie, who can say?
     But even yet at Seven Isles Bay
Is told the ghostly tale
     Of a weird, unspoken sail,

In the pale, sad light of the Northern day
     Seen by the blanketed Montagnais,
Or squaw, in her small kyack,
     Crossing the spectre's track.

On the deck a maiden wrings her hands;
     Her likeness kneels on the gray coast sands;
One in her wild despair,
     And one in the trance of prayer.

She flits before no earthly blast,
     The red sign fluttering from her mast,

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Seven Isles (New York, United States) (1)
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