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     In vain the harbor-boat shall hail,
In vain the pilot call;
     No hand shall reef her spectral sail,
Or let her anchor fall.

Shake, brown old wives, with dreary joy,
     Your gray-head hints of ill;
And, over sick-beds whispering low,
     Your prophecies fulfil.
Some home amid yon birchen trees
     Shall drape its door with woe;
And slowly where the Dead Ship sails,
     The burial boat shall row!

From Wolf Neck and from Flying Point,
     From island and from main,
From sheltered cove and tided creek,
     Shall glide the funeral train.
The dead-boat with the bearers four,
     The mourners at her stern,—
And one shall go the silent way
     Who shall no more return!

And men shall sigh, and women weep,
     Whose dear ones pale and pine,
And sadly over sunset seas
     Await the ghostly sign.
They know not that its sails are filled
     By pity's tender breath,
Nor see the Angel at the helm
     Who steers the Ship of Death!


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Flying Point (Massachusetts, United States) (1)

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1866 AD (1)
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